


transistor

by fishcola



Series: transistorverse [1]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: (and dubcon / noncon in that transactional context), (including off-screen mentions of sexual violence), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Drama, Explicit Consensual Sexual Content, Explicit Non-Consensual Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Prostitution & Transactional Sex, Violence, and general emotional skulduggery as is my wont, but it's both bleak and also romantic?, one passing mention of underage sex in a character's backstory, these tags just make it sound bleak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: nostradamus never explained what you're supposed to do if you survive the end of the world. he probably wouldn't approve.transistor....let the new world hit you....help me reach the stars between your eyes.......





	1. rising sun blues

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [a hard world for the little things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166227) by [othersideofthis (hikaru)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis). 



> fish has got another weird one, y'all.
> 
> kindly read over by **spacegirl** who writes good shit and asks good questions. ty ty my friend <3
> 
> 1\. **this is nsfw rpf,** enjoy, but remember the first rule of fight club.  
> 2\. **~*please*~ check tags** for content. i am happy to tag chapters to allow you to skip your least faves.  
> 3\. heavily inspired by _a hard world for the little things_ b/c i couldn't get your AU out of my head.  
> 4\. also it's all just a scissor sisters songfic so take that.

**kiss you off my lips I don’t need another tube of that dime store lipstick** ****  
**well I think I’m gonna buy me a brand new shade of man** ****  
**kiss you off my lips it’s standing room only for a piece of my pigment** **  
** **so excuse me a minute while I supply demand**

 

 

 

 

Pat drives, because he’s not useful for other things anymore.

The kid that hops in is young. Still got baby fat. His hair is light, and his face is sweet and simple.

 _Where to?_ Pat asks.

The piece of paper has a scrawled address in the widow’s handwriting. Pat knows the place. It’s pretty far out. He’s going to have to wait, then. Can’t just drop him off and come back. Maybe while the kid’s working he can find some food. Pat knows a place in that part of town where you can get a good tamale.

They ride mostly in silence. Pat’s not a big talker, and the kid is just fidgeting, humming something to himself. Keeps fixing his hair, checking a notecard in his pocket, biting his nails. Clearly nervous. Probably never met this john before. That’s always cause for your stomach to turn over. But he’s in luck, this time. This guy’s not a problem. Polite, gentle, tips. An easy buck.

“What’s your name, kid?” Pat asks, finally sick of fingers picking at the peeling leather seats.

The kid hesitates. “Am I… supposed to tell you? The widow said…”

Fuck. He’s _brand_ new. Jesus. “Yeah, you can tell me. With the johns, use your work name. But I’m—well—I’m internal. I’m Pat, by the way.”

“Brian.” The kid says, softly. “It’s Brian.” He pauses, then asks in a rush, “Do you know this one? What he’s going to be like?”

“Yeah,” Pat says, turning a corner harder than necessary. To distract him from the little ache he feels, at the kid’s earnest fear. “Yeah, he’s good. Easy-going. You’ll do fine. He won’t hurt you.”

The kid stills, in the rearview, but doesn’t seem calmed. “But what if I—this _has_ to go well. The widow said…if I don’t…then things might not work out…for me here…”

“She’s just jerking you around.” Pat glances back over his shoulder, and wonders where this kid is from, and what he needs from the widow, and why no one else is there to give it to him. “She always says that. But trust me, you’ll work out. You’ve got a pretty face. Even if you fuck up the first one, she’d train you rather than throw you away. Ask any of the girls.”

He doesn’t like to think about this kid getting trained, though. He hopes, for Brian’s sake, that he’s a natural.

The kid gets lost in thought, and Pat lets him. Until they get close.

“Hey. How long?”

“Huh?”

“How long’ll you be in there?” Pat can’t see all of Brian’s face in the mirror, just the mouth, but it looks confused anyway. Worried. Like he doesn’t understand. Then it resolves.

“Oh. Three. He paid for three hours.”

Pat scoffs. “That’s stupid. He’s not going to use all that. Just come out when he tells you you’re done.”

“You’ll wait for me?” Brian’s voice is so hopeful that it could shatter glass. Pat pushes away more aches. He can’t deal with this, right now. Or ever.

“Yup. And if you don’t come out in three, I’m coming in.”

Brian smiles brilliantly at this, and Pat doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not gonna be there to _save_ him, just to renegotiate. “All right, kid. Here we are. Good luck in there.”

“Thanks,” says Brian, who takes three deep shaky breaths before he leaves, checks his notecard. Pat tries not to look at him, not to wonder what he’s thinking, what his notes are reminding him. What it feels like, to be doing this, for the first time.

Goddammit. Pat waves him back. Fuck it. He’s gotta help at least a _little._

“Here. Kid. Unbutton your top shirt button—there you go. That’s better. Just remember. You’re cute—Grey’s gonna like you. Tell him you’re new. He’ll think you’re lying, but he’ll like it anyway. He’ll probably put on a movie and cuddle for an hour or so. He’ll touch you. He likes a little noise, so try to give him that. If you’re really good with your mouth, he probably won’t even fuck you. Just act all shy and bat your eyelashes. Don’t touch his balls. That’s all you need to know.”

The kid’s eyes are locked on him, memorizing all this, drinking it in with desperate gratefulness. “Pat, thank you—”

“Scram, kid. I’ll be out here when you’re done.”

  
  
  


When Brian gets back, he looks much the same; he’s not limping, or crying, or anything worse, so Pat imagines it was probably a success.

The kid won’t want to talk about it, like as not, so Pat just hands over a couple of tamales and says “Eat,” and the two of them appreciate Juanita’s fine cooking in companionable silence.  

Brian eats one and saves the other. On the drive back he talks a bit more, although it’s not about himself, or Grey, or anything like that. They talk about music, and the war, and the weather. They both miss the snow. This city is so muggy, all the time. Brian’s from Baltimore—not quite the northeast, but close enough to appreciate how quiet and clean and wonderful a new snowfall is.

It never snows here, and the city is never quiet.

When he pulls up to the mews, Pat realizes he’s sorry the ride is over. Goddamn. He let himself—he is _not_ going to get attached.

“Will I see you again?” Brian asks as he gets out of the car. “I mean, do you drive for her a lot?”

“Yup,” Pat says, and that little hopeful voice pulls at him again, pulls something true out of him. “I aged out of your line of work. But she’s still got her hooks in me. I drive most nights.”

The kid’s eyes are so wide, but Pat was wrong, at first. His face isn’t simple. It’s _clever_ , and the kid is curious, and smart, and thinking. “You don’t live down here, then?”

“No. My own place, downtown. It’s a rathole, but it’s not as bad as the mews.”

Brian nods, and opens his mouth to ask another question. Time to end this conversation.  

“See you around, Brian,” he says, as he muscles the window up.

The kid waves, hurries down the street, unlatches the gate, goes up the stairs. Pat watches him until he disappears into the faded brick building. He’s so young, but then again. That’s how the work is. The widow doesn’t create the need. She just finds people who aren’t too proud to fill it.

He wonders what the offer was, that Brian couldn’t refuse. Why he’s at the mews, bunking with other wretches—runaways and hookers and pickpockets in the widow’s filthy little nest. Maybe his folks died, disappeared, in the war. Maybe he needs something; meds, drugs, bail, protection. Maybe he has someone in hiding he was taking care of. Maybe he just doesn’t want to starve.

It couldn’t be _that_ bad, right? He doesn’t look like Pat did, his first week, rail-thin and patchy-haired and filthy. He remembers it. Begging. He remembers the widow pulling him up by the hair, inspecting his face mottled with green and black. _You’re a mess. You’re going to be no use to me for at least a month_ , she said. _So why the hell should I feed you?_ He doesn’t remember what he said, to convince her. Probably nothing, the girls told him later. She was getting a deal. Skinny, tall, dark hair, pale skin, sixteen, desperate to please, nowhere to turn. She would make good money off him, for a good long time.

Pat springs for a bottle of liquor, on the way home. It’s a rare expense, even cheap grain alcohol, but every now and then he needs to blunt the edges of memory.

  
  
  


Pat is waiting for Legs. He resists the urge to lean on the horn. She knows she’s going to be late. She’ll catch it. No sense in getting his own ass in trouble for disturbing the peace after curfew.

The night isn’t quiet, because no matter how late it gets it’s never quiet here. Cries, barking, creaking, sounds of city life. They echo in and out of the brick and iron.

Somewhere above it all—not metaphorically, _literally_ from above—he hears the strains of someone singing.

 _…my mother was a tailor_  
_she sewed my new blue jeans_  
_my father was a gamblin’ man_ _  
down in New Orleans…_

A little on the nose for Pat’s taste, but it’s so pretty that his heart thrums along anyway. The voice isn’t bluesy—it’s clear and high and sad. It reminds Pat of a church choir. He never sang, but he loved the hymns. His mom knew all the words, even without the book. The hum of harmonica carries the melody in between verses, as sweet and mournful as the voice itself.

Allegra bangs out the door and waves him to pull up closer. When she jumps in, hair half-done, her purse spills everywhere, flinging makeup and condoms and jewelry.

“Fuck. Book it, Pat. I’m late for Cane and he’s already paid up the month. She’ll tan my hide if he complains again.”

Pat nods and floors it. It’s quick to weave through the streets at this time of night, though Legs swears at him as she tries to finish mascara. She eventually gets herself sorted out—she looks _fire_ , as usual, tall and fierce and sleek. In the rearview, he can see her composure come over her, see her face get that _look—_ the one that works for her, cool disinterest and wickedness. Hot ice.

“Can I leave my glasses in here?” Legs throws them in the front seat as she asks. “I’ll be out the whole night, but you can just give ‘em to the new kid? With the hair. He’ll get them to me.”

“Brian? Yeah, sure. I’ll find him. You guys roommates?”

“Yeah, for now. She was gonna bunk him with the boys but he had a problem, I guess. So he’s stuck with me and Jenna and the whole pile now.”

“Probably for the best,” Pat says absently, wondering what trouble Brian had already gotten into.

“Yeah—he’s fine—real _funny_ ,” Allegra throws over her shoulder as she runs in the house. “He’s in tonight, so just give them to him!”

  
  
  


Back at the mews, Pat asks for Brian at the door. “Legs gave me something for him,” he says.

“I’ll take it,” Russ offers, but Pat shakes his head.

Russ is an asshole, but Pat doesn’t hold it against him. Hard not to be, down here. Still, just because he sympathizes doesn’t mean Pat _trusts_ him. Not with anything that costs money. And glasses do—Pat should know—how many times has he gotten his ass beat for losing them? But the widow made sure they got replaced. Pat’s face wasn’t pretty enough without them, she said. He needed something to break up all those hard angles.

“Fine, he’s on the roof,” Russ huffs, and Pat pushes past him to get to the stairs.

It’s more fucking flights than he remembers, to get to the top. He almost gives up. Did he really climb _this_ many goddamn stairs, back in the day, just to get a peek at dirty sky?

The door to the roof is heavy, but Pat can push it open without being too noisy. Practice.

The kid is up there, sitting on the edge of the building, legs dangling off. He’s not singing, but he _is_ playing the harmonica, a lilting tune that’s vaguely like greensleeves. Honestly, Pat had no idea a harmonica could sound like that, like a wild thing that is lost and far from home.

He doesn’t know how to make his presence known. If he shouts, what if the kid startles? So instead, he just leans against the wall, folds his arms, listens. The song shifts. Pat can’t really tell if it’s in a minor or a major key anymore. It’s not happy but it’s not sad, and there’s no melody _per se_. It’s just frolicsome chaos like running through a forest—skipping with energy and youth. But there’s also something else. Wariness. Something lurking in the undergrowth. Something you keep catching, when it moves. Out of the corner of your eye.

After a while, the kid pauses. Comes back to the world. Looks around. He doesn’t startle, when he realizes he’s not alone, although he does shove the little instrument in his pocket quickly. It’s probably the most expensive thing he owns. Pat hopes to God someone doesn’t take it off him.

“Pat?”

“Sorry to sneak up on you,” Pat says, shoving off the wall. “Didn’t want to interrupt. Legs gave me something for you.”  He reaches out with the glasses, and Brian scrambles over to get them.

“Of course—thanks—sorry you had to walk all the way up.”

“You’ve got pipes,” Pat says, for lack of a better compliment. “Does the widow know you can sing? You can probably make some specialty cash on that.”

“Thanks. Yeah—yeah, she knows. Picked me up busking. And I dunno. I’d offer, but they seem to like my mouth doing other things.” The kid laughs, and it’s clear as a bell and only a little sad.

“Fair enough.” Pat turns to go.

“Wait,” the kid says, and grabs his arm. His fingernails are painted, but they’re also chewed down to the nub.

Pat turns, but tries not to look the kid in the face. He needs to end this conversation. To raise an eyebrow, cross his arms, look busy and bored and stony-faced. To make the kid stumble back, apologizing. To sweep away.

For whatever reason—maybe he’s too tired to make his face mean, or maybe the kid can’t see his glare in the dark—it doesn’t work. Brian stays holding his arm.

“I need a favor,” says the kid, and Pat’s heart constricts, because he knows when he’s been _had_ , and he knows already that whatever it is, he’s gonna give it up, and he’s gonna regret it.

“ _What_. _”_

Fuck, he should know better than thinking anything in this place is innocent or sweet or friendly or _real._

“I’m supposed to see Lamonte on Monday,” Brian says, and his voice breaks. “And Legs says I have to—he’s going to—I haven’t before—”

A virgin. He’s a fucking _virgin_ , and they gave him to Lamonte. _Fuck_.

“The widow says he paid a lot. For me. And if I’m good then she’ll make sure I—”

Pat waves a hand. He doesn’t need to know. What he’ll get, if he’s good. What he’s willing to do anything for. Brian bites his lip and looks at the floor, at his ratty sneakers. There are no laces.

“So what do you _need_?”

“The widow said if I’m smart I’ll get one of the boys to. Help me out. Um. To show me what it’s like. I can—I don’t have any cash now—but I can—pay—later—f-for the lesson…”

“No,” Pat says acidly, shaking off the kid’s hand. “I don’t fuck for money anymore. And I’m not a good teacher. Get one of the others to show you the ropes. Russ, or Griff. They’ll enjoy it.”

“Please,” Brian whispers, as Pat turns away. It sounds like he’s about to cry. “Please. I can’t ask them.”

“Whatever you did to piss them off,” Pat says to the door handle as he turns it, “You should probably fix it. You’re not going to last long here if you start by making enemies.”

Before he gets the door all the way open, though, he just _has_ to throw a glance back—

 _—like Lot’s wife_ , an idle thought drifts, maybe because he’d been thinking of hymns—

—tears are streaming down Brian’s face, over a shiner that was hidden by shadows before. As the moon comes out from behind a cloud the bruise is fresh and dark and unmistakable.

“Who hit you,” Pat says quietly.

“Griffin,” Brian sniffs. “I’m a s-slow learner.”

“I doubt that. If she’s already got you headed to Lamonte then you must be good with your mouth.”

“He s-said—”

“Griffin’s just an asshole. He’s probably angry you’re already getting better tips off just blowjobs. And Russ is a moron. Legs said you’re bunking with the girls, now. The widow moved you”

Brian runs a sleeve under his nose. “Yeah. She was—angry.”

“Getting your face marked up is a no-no ‘round here. But she didn’t move you just for that.”

“No,” Brian says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Pat feels sick. He’s going to say yes, now, he knows. And the worst part is, he doesn’t even want to say no.

“I’ll come get you tomorrow night, then. At 10. Bring an overnight bag. And you’re not fucking paying me.”

“Thank yo—!” The heavy door cuts off the rest of the heartfelt little sound.

 

 

 

 **spare this child your sideways smile, that crack in your veneer** ****  
**some blue broad will spoil your rod, it just takes patience, dear** ****  
**they’ll rush you for your life but you’ll never beat the game** ****  
**(older and older you get)** ****  
**crush you like a gyre but the gimble’s all the same** **  
** **(oh no i think it’s happening)**


	2. all of the lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explicit (consensual-ish) sex herein.

**when you cut the lights out** ****  
**think of me** ****  
**when you cut the lights out** ****  
**think of all the things you can’t see** ****  
**but are they real?** ****  
**that face will be revealed** ****  


 

When Brian gets in this time, he hesitates—then climbs in the front seat. Pat smiles at that.

The smile quickly turns over into a scowl. The kid’s dolled up like he’s _going_ somewhere. He’s covered the bruise. His lashes are long and dark, lips wet and just shy of pink. Shirt’s a size too big and threatens to slip off his slender shoulder. His pants are tight and his wrists are like a child’s.

He’s going to get _eaten alive_ , and there’s nothing Pat can do about it. But he’s got to fuckin’ try.

Brian looks at him, nervous. Like he looked last week, when they met. It’s the same emotion, probably. Scared about what this unknown prick is going to do to him.

“Is this…okay?” Brian says, voice small. Tentative.

“You didn’t need to dress up,” Pat says gruffly. He wants to say, _it makes this harder._

Brian shrugs, a little deflated. “Just practicing.”

“It’s good. Did Ashley do your makeup?”

“No, I—I know how.”

“Nice. You can wash it off when we get in, though.”

“You don’t like it?”

Pat grimaces. “I _do_ like it. That’s the issue. It makes me feel like…like I’m…like one of _them_. Which I guess—yknow, screw it. Take it off, leave it on. It doesn’t matter.”

He doesn’t look at Brian for most of the ride, because every sneaky glance feels like a sin. He shouldn’t be excited. To be here for probably the worst moment of this kid’s life. Or at least, the first worst moment. He shouldn’t be harboring a secret warmth in his belly, to think of how he’s going to catch that pink lip in his teeth and slide a hand under that thin shirt and sees what sounds he can tickle out.  

They pull up to Pat’s apartment and he gets out quick. “Grab the torch, kid. It’s in the glove box. So you don’t fall on the stairs.”

The kid doesn’t follow, though. He stays in the car.

Pat sighs and goes around, opens the passenger door. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” Brian says slowly. “But I just—l wanted to say. I know you’re willing to help me out. Even though you don’t want to. But I don’t want…to _make_ you. If you’re going to f-feel…that’s really f-fucked up.”

It brings out a funny sort of smile, as Pat taps his fingers on the door and contemplates him.

“You’re not _making_ me do anything, kid. I’ve got complicated feelings, sure. Bet you do, too. You gotta learn how to deal. Put away all that other shit, and just focus on whatever fucking reason you have for doing what you’re doing tonight.”

Brian’s body is turned to him, one foot out of the car, hesitating, looking for something in Pat’s face. The lashes look _good_ , in the moonlight. The kid’s pretty enough that he doesn’t need glasses, but he has them, thick coke-bottle lenses in clear peachy plastic. Pat wonders where he got them. They make his eyes wider and larger and rounder and even more innocent.

“As for me? I’m going to lean in to the fact that you’re a hot piece of ass that I get to have my wicked way with. My dick’s already ahead of me, in that regard.”

The kid drops his gaze. Pat wiggles his hips. He’s not lying. This pulls out of Brian a little half-smile. “Okay.”

As they head up to the bedroom together Pat wraps his arm around the kid’s waist. He’s slim and soft and God, Pat’s going to never get his karma sorted out, not after tonight.

  
  
  
  
  
  


After Pat lights the lamp, they start with kissing. Brian sits on his lap right away, boldness that’s a surprise. He’s a good kisser—sweet and shy when Pat is forceful, but got a few tricks to show off, too—and he lets Pat shuck off his clothes without losing contact of lips and tongue and face and teeth. Pat’s doesn’t want to go slow. Doesn’t want the kid to think too hard, if he can help it.

Still, he makes time to murmur encouragements. _Good—good, babe—you’re so pretty. Yeah—you like that? Push there again. You’re so good for me. Soft and slow, now._

When hit the bed they’re both only stripped to the waist, but Brian freezes anyway.

“Not yet,” Pat says in an attempt at comfort. “Not that. Let’s do something else first, kid.” He tugs at the boxers briefly, but then lets go. The kid should decide when to take them off.

Brian’s hands are confident as he slips the fabric down. A rush of hot relief washes through Pat’s skull, as he sees dark, curly hairs. He might have lost his nerve, if the kid was clean-shaven. He almost certainly will be, by next week. But at least…

Pat stoops to kiss the patch of hair gratefully, letting his scruffy beard rub against it.

“You don’t have to—”

“Hush.” Brian’s protest fades away as Pat cups his balls with a hand, starts to lick up his length. It takes a bit, learning what the kid likes, but Pat is a professional. Well, a retired professional. He quickly has the body beneath him squirming and gasping with delight. He adjusts. Speed, moisture, tension, pace. It’s easy, it’s pleasant, and he doesn’t have to think. He just lets himself feel confident and sexy and focus on the heat and jerks of movement and those little mewling noises. Oh, it’s good.

He presses the knees up, wordlessly pulls the kid’s arms to wrap around them. Brian obediently locks his hands together and lets Pat slide a pillow under his hips. The light’s too bad, to see what the kid’s face looks like. Could be anything. Terror, anticipation, grief, desire. Determination.  

Pat prostrates himself, chest on the bed, legs dangling off, and lets his mouth delve below. Brian _moans_ in surprise as Pat licks along the crease of his ass without hesitation.

“You _really_ don’t have to—” the kid repeats, as Pat’s tongue peeks into his hole.

“Shh,” Pat murmurs, strokes the kid’s thigh. “Let me drive. I’m good at this.”

Brian acquiesces, letting his head fall back with a sigh as Pat’s mouth goes back to work. Hopefully it’s a sigh of pleasure and nothing more contemplative. He’s trying _,_ Pat’s _trying_ to be tender and gentle but also mind-blankingly intense. He’s trying to kiss and lick like a lover, trying to focus most of all on making the kid feel good. So that these memories don’t mix up too much with the ones that’ll come after.

The kid is writhing as his tongue fucks in and out and swirls. Pat doesn’t grip, but lets a hand stroke bellyward—brushing hips, cock, thighs. He tries to transmit a promise through the press of his sweaty fingertips—that he hasn’t forgotten, that something tonight is gonna feel good, that Pat’ll make sure Brian ends up satisfied.

Eventually the blade of his tongue has done as much as it can, and he pulls back to murmur.

“I’m gonna grab lube, babe. Keep yourself just like this for me, hmm? Hard and spread out. You’re beautiful. We’re gonna go slow. Make sure everything feels nice.”

Brian nods distantly and Pat pulls away a moment, finds the kid’s bag, pulls out the little container. He shucks off his own shorts unceremoniously, strokes some lube onto himself, and returns to the bed.  

“You can start, if you want,” Pat offers, pulling the kid more to the center of the bed, letting himself indulge the urge to nip at his creamy throat. “Or, if you trust me, I can. I’ll go slow.”

“I trust you,” Brian says to him, pupils wide and open, and Pat feels his stomach somersault as he lubes up a finger. He turns the kid on his side, lets the knees fall loose so he’s curled limply in Pat’s arms. One arm goes ‘round the kid’s chest tight, the other starts working it in. It helps, to feel the every little shudder and tremor, amplified through Brian’s ribcage. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, by the time Pat is in to the knuckle, and soon he’s fucking in and out without any real resistance.

“How does it feel?”

“ _Good_ ,” Brian hums, and he doesn’t sound afraid. “So good, Pat.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Pat smiles into his neck, and curls his finger inside. He brushes against the prostate in soft little strokes, and the kid is keening for more.

Two fingers is fine. But he knows that scissoring is going to be a different story, so his other hand moves to grab Brian’s dick. “Okay, kid. I’m going to work you open now. It’s gonna hurt a bit, but if I do it right, you won’t really notice. Okay?”

“Mmkay,” he seems far gone, but the sounds he makes when Pat starts to move are more urgent, desperate. He’s liking it, Pat thinks. The moans are distracting, they throw off Pat’s timing, encourage him to jerk too fast, push too hard. Brian seems to be forgiving him, though, pressing himself down on the fingers, rocking and whimpering _yes, yes, please._

Pat eases up the pressure a little bit. He thinks they’re probably ready. Either way, he _needs_ to get some touch, pretty soon. “Kid. _Kid_. How do you want to do this?”

“Huh?” Brian turns, confused and breathless.

“I can fuck you,” Pat explains, “or you can ride me. You’ll get more control the second way. Set the pace. The first way you can just lay back and take it.”

“Fuck me.” The words are _sinfully_ coarse, on Brian’s pouty pink lips. “Please.”

“You got it,” Pat says with a wicked grin, and presses the kid’s hips.

Brian doesn’t turn flat on his belly, though—just twists, pretzel-like and and lets Pat half-straddle him, knees on either side of one leg, other leg bent and curving over Pat’s thigh. His ass is firm and wonderful, and Pat feels a thrill as the kid maneuvers himself so that his upper half is facing Pat, the curve of his delicate collarbones, his neck, sharp with the twist in his thin body. Pat wraps a hand around his waist. This is clever. This’ll work.

“Good,” Pat grunts, lining himself up. He wants to give instructions—advice—but finds that it’s hard to remember what he wants to say when Brian is looking up at him, messy and sweaty and so _trusting_ , holding still with his hands tangled in sheets, mouth half-open, panting. He’s not looking past or through or away but right _at_ Pat’s face, and Pat knows how he must look—focused, horny, animalistic with desire.

“That’s it,” Pat encourages, as he eases in. He tries to go slow, but his dick is _craving_ friction, and he knows he jerks a few times harder than he should. The kid’s face tenses, then smooths. There’s nothing he can do in this position, no way to jerk away. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” Pat assures. “I’ll stop.”

“Okay.” Brian’s right hand is on Pat’s arm now, not hard, just holding, as if feeling for a pulse in the crook of his elbow. “How—how far are you—in?”

“About halfway. It hurts?”

“Only a little,” Brian admits, and brushes back his hair sweatily. “It’s—it’s a lot.”

“Yeah. I’m long. Relax. Breathe. It’s easy to tense too much. Want me to pull out?”

“No,” Brian says. “It’s—I think—it could feel good. If I just—can you—kiss me?”

Pat leans over to capture the kid’s mouth. His tongue plunges in, and he likes the little moan he feels vibrate along his lips. He indulges himself—sucks, licks, teasing, wet and loud and hard and distracting. He hopes the kid isn’t disgusted by the press of Pat’s tongue. Or at least, that he understands the message Pat’s trying to send, the fucking, swirling, pulse of pressure that forces its way between his teeth, that says _I’m driving, I’m paying,_ _I’m taking what I want, just let yourself like it, you’re going to break if you don’t let yourself like it at least sometimes._

The kid is so _tight_. Of course. It’s hot and tight and he sees stars, whenever the body below him squirms and clenches. Pat’s self-control is good, but it’s not _that_ good. He _has_ to…he _needs_ to…

“I’m in,” he breaks away to say. “That’s it. Can I—can I _move_?”

Brian just nods, hesitantly.

“I’ll go slow,” Pat swears, and lets himself start to rock. He watches Brian’s face intently. There’s pain, but he thinks it’s brief. Manageable. He shifts angles, trying to find the one that makes the kid’s expression loosen up. Eventually he gets it, finds the place, and Brian starts making thready little _mmph_ sounds.

“Good?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Brian pants. His legs are squirming, but there’s not much he can do, like this, no way to push against anything. “Yeah. Good.”

Pat’s surprised, when the kid’s hand wraps around his neck, curls in his hair, pulls his gaze back so they’re face to face. This kid likes to _look_ at who he’s fucking. Pat doesn’t mind the view. Brian’s eyes are half-lidded with pleasure and _smoldering_ , and his hair is wet with sweat, his mouth is red and open and wet. He looks _debauched_ , and Pat knows that he can’t hold out too much longer.

If possible, he’d like to finish the kid first, though, so he lets go of the slender hip and seizes Brian’s dick without preamble. Brian _squeaks_ and writhes, and Pat almost comes just from the jerk of surprise and heat. He masters himself, though, and starts to pump—hard, steady strokes—that have the kid screwing his eyes shut and yanking hard at Pat’s hair.

“ _Talk to me,_ ” Brian begs. “ _Please_ , Pat…tell me…what to do…”

It’s not hard, for once, to summon his best sultry voice, those deep tones of pleasure and desire. “You’re gonna come for me, kid,” he instructs. “Keep your eyes closed. Think about someone you’d like to fuck. Imagine them looking at you like this—a total mess—hard and hot and sprawled across their bed. You look pretty like this. Just let me fuck into you. You’re so _tight._ You’re fucking _perfect._ I want to see you come like this.”

He strokes a few more times, and despite what he said, the kid opens his eyes, fixes him with that heavy gaze again. Pat tightens his hand, and the kid spasms beneath him, come spilling over Pat’s knee, making little airy yelps of pleasure as his dick spurts.

The spasms are nearly enough to finish Pat off right away, and it only takes a moment for him to find the angle, to drive in _once, twice, thrice_ more, and to finish himself off. He’s glad he hasn’t lost his pacing, at least.

Pullout is messy, but it always is. So he just ignores the stickiness and falls on the bed beside the kid, curls him into an embrace. It isn’t, apparently, unwanted. Brian nuzzles into his chest.

They lie like that for a while. Brian doesn’t seem—

“Thank you,” the kid hums, voice soft.

“My pleasure,” Pat says, relieved. He’d been worried—that the kid would—something. Cry. Regret it. Get angry, for all the good that would do. But he seems content enough and sated and quite comfortable, now that his breathing’s returned to normal. He’ll probably fall asleep like this, if Pat lets him.

“Hey kid. Kid. Go wash up. The water’s fine enough for cleaning. I’ll deal with the bed.”

“Okay,” Brian says sleepily. He stumbles up, takes a holder with a little tea candle, makes his way toward the bathroom. If he’s walking funny Pat hopes it’s just because he’s half-asleep.

Pat strips the sheet while Brian showers. He _thinks_ Brian will want to sleep here, but of course, now that he’s up there’s no guarantee. He collects the kid’s clothes, in case he decides to go.

“You have _hot water,_ ” the kid trills in delight through the open bathroom door.

“Sometimes,” Pat laughs. “Take an aspirin. They’re on the shelf.”

“I don’t want to take your things,” Brian’s voice wavers.

“Remember, I don’t use them much anymore. Take it quick, before the hot runs out.”

“Okay.”

  
  
  
  


“Your turn,” Brian yawns his way out, hot and clean, from the shower. He doesn’t bother to get dressed before falling into the bed, yawning, curling on his side to make space. Pat feels a foreign sense of warmth in his gut, a bright dash of something like hope or joy or prayers answered.

“I’m good. I washed off.” As Pat climbs into bed, Brian makes an approving little hum and sidles close. Pat wraps an arm around him.

“Thanks,” Brian mumbles again. “That was good. I liked it. You were so gentle.”

“Good, kid. That’s really good. I tried.”

“I’m glad I—you—I needed it to want it. Just once, at least. If I need to fake it. I can just remember how it felt.”

There’s nothing to say to that, and when the silence stretches on two beats, it’s clear the kid is drifting to sleep.

 _You’ve been given something precious_ , Pat’s internal voice says. _And for once, you didn’t fuck it up._

  
  
  
  
  


The widow’s office is in the basement, but she’s rarely there when Pat drops in to get paid. This time, though—

“ _Viens là_ , _espèce de_ _salope._ ” her voice hisses dangerously.

He barely has time to shut the door before her hand grabs his hair, yanks his head down to her level. She slaps him, twice, and although it stings a bit it’s not as humiliating as he remembers, even with Travis’s stupid little half-smirk as he looks on, arms folded, from the corner.

“Ma’am?” he drawls, bored, like he doesn’t know why she’s mad, like he’s supremely unconcerned, like he doesn’t even recall when a few words of furious French made his stomach heave.

“ _Écoute voir, connard_ , I heard that _someone_ has been handling my merchandise without _paying_ ,” the widow shakes him savagely. “You know what _that_ means.”

Pat calculates, quickly, the likelihood that she’ll actually have Travis break his arm. He can drive with one arm, is the thing. So he might have to talk fast.

“Someone’s been lying, then, widow,” he says mildly. “Did the kid pull one over on me? He said you told him to get in some practice, before he saw Lamonte.”

Her eyes narrow, but she lets go of his hair. “I told him to get one of the boys to show him the ropes. I didn’t mean _you_.”

“Hmm,” Pat sniffs. “And you didn’t think Griff would break his fucking nose out of spite?”

“Griffin knows they’d both answer to me, if Brian wasn’t presentable.”

“Yeah, well. I think the kid wasn’t blown away by Griffin’s self-control. He had a shiner. He offered his tips for a month, if I’d be careful. I was. Problem?”

“You’re always a problem.” Something about her face suggests she doesn’t quite believe the lie, but his delivery is practiced, and she steps back behind her desk without motioning Travis forward to hurt him. A good sign.

Pat forces his shoulders to relax when she smiles. “But _peut-être_ we’ll let it slide, this time. Sit down, Patrick. Let’s talk. How’d he do? Is he a good lay?”

He slides into a chair, impassive, although his back wants to hitch. “He’s green. He’s not stupid, he’ll learn. Didn’t smile much, but I think he’ll turn on the charm for the real thing.”

“Did he cry?”

“No. Close. We went pretty slow, though. No guarantees he won’t.”

“ _C’est bon_ ; some clients like a few honest tears. Did you work him through how to make it cute?”

“Not really. You know that’s not my style. Have Ashley give him a once-over.”

The widow nods, making a mental note. But before Pat is dismissed, her glare is back on him, triangulating. “How do I know that I can _trust_ you, driving my girls off into the night, to not sneak a little taste?”

He pushes down stupid emotions like fear and reaches into the parts of himself that are useful, finds the wisps of idle lassitude he needs. “I’m not stupid, ma’am. I’m not going to risk my neck.”

“Seems like you already have,” she needles.

“If you want, I won’t drive him anymore,” he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter much to me. If I’d known, I would’ve said no. But cash is a little tight. And we both know this kid is gonna make good tips.”

“He’s pretty, that’s for sure.” She twirls her pen, and her eyes are _wicked_. The hairs rise on the back of Pat’s arms. She’s thought of something. Some way to pay him back, for getting out of line. He’s not going to like it.

“Couldn’t pass up the deal,” he adds, and hopes she can’t hear how dry his mouth is.

She gets up, eyes half-lidded, and walks back close to him. Puts a hand on his arm.

“Need a little extra change this month, hmm, sweetheat? _C’est con_. Your finances must be pretty bad—I didn’t know you were open to taking customers again.”

His heart thumps a little bit. Here it comes.

“Don’t have anyone like you in the stable right now. I can send you some work, if you’d like.”

“Aren’t I a bit old?”

“You can shave,” she brushes a hand across his stubbly cheek, tilting his head up. “You’ll clean up all right. Sometimes I’ve got a job that takes a little _experience_ , you know. Some finesse. I think Brian will be a good fit, one day, but it’ll be a shame if I have to make him bite off more than he can chew. Before he’s ready.”

“If you’ve got work,” Pat says roughly, “Let me know what it pays. I’m not taking anyone cheap.”

“Only the best for you, Patrick,” she laughs, and drops his head.

He doesn’t think too hard, as she shoves him his cash and he stumbles out into the filthy, muggy night.

 

 

 ****  
**mama told me one thing i’ll remember till I die** ****  
**the one you want the most will be the one that you defy** ****  
**the times they’re gonna love you, like stitches in a scar** **  
** **you can never run from trouble ‘cause there ain’t no place that far**


	3. i want you (she's so heavy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks yet again to **spacegirl** for beta-ing and assuaging my insecurities about worldbuilding.

**if you’re waiting for your wings but you just got legs** ****  
**and you’re feeding all your chickens but they won’t lay eggs** ****  
**when you open up your drawers and see your janky clothes** ****  
**just remember life’s in love with you but let’s suppose** ****  
**that God aint gonna drop you no hundred dollar bill** **  
** **you gotta question your intentions ‘cause the bad ones kill**

 

 

Lamonte isn’t as bad as Pat remembers. He still doesn’t know his way around a riding crop, and he finishes fast, so that’s something. It’s the new guy—Duvall—who Pat finds hateful. He’s only been around a few weeks but the girls already call him _deux-jour-Duvall_ with special spite. Duvall’s pissed that Legs isn’t here, and Pat can tell he’s the type that’s excited to have a reason to be pissed, the type of gross little man who loves an excuse to loop a belt around your neck and throw you to the floor and fuck you hard and ugly.

More annoying than the scratches on his back or having to sit gingerly for a few days is just the plain lack of courtesy. It’s one thing to be called a filthy whore—he _is_ one, so no hard feelings—but it’s quite another to rip his shirt to shreds—he _liked_ that shirt—and to take a swing when Pat has the audacity to ask for some water.

 _Well fuck you very much too_ , Pat thinks, as he lets himself be backhanded to the floor. _This blowjob’s going to be dry as hell and it’s your own fucking fault._

It’s just the icing on the cake when Allegra won’t talk to him. “She’s pissed you took her best tipper,” Jenna spills on a ride the next night, when Pat’s working but not _working_ , “I mean, you have seniority, but, uh, she thought you were out, so she dibsed him. She’s worried he’ll like you more.”

“Yeah, well,” Pat sighs. “If he does, too bad, I’m not a fan. She can have him.”

Allegra does forgive him, when he finally can grab her and half-explain, outside the mews. He doesn’t give her the story, but at least she isn’t scowling as much when she sees he’s sorry.

“You’re an ass,” she grunts, which means they’re good. “I hear you sniped Lamonte, too, last week. Even though we teed up the kid for him. What’s your game, Pat? Thought you were too high and mighty for the money anymore. You lose a bet?”

“Kinda.” He sighs. “It was the widow’s idea. But Lamonte—little rough for a first timer, don’t you think?”

“I mean, yeah, it’ll make him cry,” Allegra waves a hand, “But Lamonte’s into that. Kid could have months of great tips if he just goes and flashes those big lashes and squeals like a stuck pig whenever it comes natural. He doesn’t even have to pretend to like it.”

Practical, as ever. Pat just nods. “Yeah. Sorry for getting in the way. I’ll warn you, next time.”

“That’s all I’m asking. You’re not the only one who’s gotta pay bills around here, Patrick.”

She stalks off, and Pat watches her go.

He turns and heads back. Walking is—it’s _fine_. It pulls a bit. That’s all.

The distraction is enough, though. He loses attention. There’s a sound from behind him, and when he hears it, he realizes simultaneously that it’s a footstep, and that he’s heard it twice before. Fuck.

The night’s dark, but there’s enough greenish light from the swirling sky to make shadows. He pauses, and the sounds stop. Following him, then. It’s probably just a pickpocket—if they’re good, Pat won’t even notice.

It’s stupid to just stand here, so he starts to walk again. The sound of steps continue behind him, not even bothering to silence themselves in the quiet.

Pat sighs. Even a stupid pickpocket would be more careful. If it’s someone who wants to shake the cash out of him he needs them to get a few things straight.

“You might be new around here,” he offers up into the darkness, hands raised, “so if you don’t know me, I’m with the widow.” He turns, slowly. “I got a few bucks, but bust up my face and it’ll go bad for you.”

The figure that emerges isn’t one of the local toughs, though. It’s small and slender and tousle-haired and wide-eyed. Brian.

“Pat?”

Pat lowers his arms, even though his heart rate slip-shifts up a gear. “Hey, kid. You should be in bed.”

Brian ignores him and steps very close. Pat resists the urge to jerk away, because the kid’s looking up with those big bright eyes and they are _searing_ with something that he has no interest in knowing more deeply. It’s not safe to know what that emotion is.

“I thought—” the kid starts to ask, and Pat knows already from the tone that it’s a question he really shouldn’t answer, so he shoves a hand over his mouth roughly. Brian doesn’t flinch.

“Look,” he whispers. “Not here, all right? People could be listening.”

“Can I come with you, then?” Brian breathes, when Pat lets him go. “To your place?”

Pat closes his eyes. This kid is trying to get him killed, for sure. “You’ll be missed.”

“No. I’m not supposed to even get back here tonight. John was sick. Sent me home early. I walked.”

“Fine,” Pat says, because as bad an idea as this is, standing outside arguing is a worse one. “C’mon, then.”

The kid has a million questions, but Pat vetoes talking until after they get to his house.  

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

It’s oatmeal for dinner, because Pat doesn’t have anything better right now, despite his recent influx of cash. The kid tries to decline but Pat makes him eat it anyway, because every minute he’s chewing at least he’s not asking questions.

Finally, though, the bowl’s clean and Brian’s looking up at him again, and Pat has nothing to do but fold his arms and say “ _What?_ ”

“I thought you didn’t have sex for money anymore.” Brian’s voice is very quiet. “But you took Lamonte.”

“Yeah well. Sorry you missed out. Pennies’re a bit tight, lately.”

Brian is still looking at him with that _emotion_ that is just too much. “I know you’re lying.”

“Oh yeah? Since when can you read minds?”

“I heard Travis telling off Griff. You lied. You told the widow I gave you my tips for a month. But you wouldn’t take money. Why would you _lie_?”

Pat closes his eyes and presses his fingertips into the lids. Of course. Of _course_ this kid would be good, at hearing things he’s not supposed to.

“I lie a lot, kid. When I fuck up. And now you’re here, so I’ve got something else to lie about.”

“Why?”

“Because I like my ribs _unbroken_ , okay?” Pat barks, and Brian startles. Good. He _should_ be scared. “And if you want to save your own ass, you’d better clam up. The widow didn’t approve of me touching you. I had to improvise a little bit. To keep things on good terms. _Pardon me_ if the story wasn’t up to your standards. You’re stuck with it now.”

The little face in front of him slips into something near panic. Pat’s sorry, but this is the way it is. The kid needs to be afraid. To protect his own hide.

“What’ll she do? If she finds out?” Brian whispers, strained.

“To you? Depends.” He tempers his tone a bit. No sense scaring the kid out of his mind. He’s still new, and he’s pretty. “I think she likes you. And you’re more valuable when you’re less bloody. She might have Travis whip your feet—which hurts like _hell_ , by the way—but it doesn’t mark. Or just throw you in the cellar for a couple days.”

Brian shudders, which suggests that he’s been down there already, or at least heard stories of the rats. His face is shifting through a lot of terrible feelings. Been there.

Pat gets up, starts to put things away. He should give the kid a moment of privacy. It’ll take him a minute to process all this. Pat can remember thinking it through, the first time. Weighing what kind of things were worth not-starving for. What kinds of rules and games and pain he’d take, for the warm meals and the safe bed and being worthy of _investment._

The kid’s looking off the edge of a precipice. Imagining himself falling into the abyss below. Imagining alternatives.

A hand on his arm surprises him. The kid is _right there_ , and looking up at him again, and his expression is a whirlwind. It’s not happy, but it’s not afraid either. Pat doesn’t like it. The kid’s calculating, putting something together.

“No. I meant, if she finds out, what does she do to _you_.”

Pat laughs, a sharp, bloody-minded sound. “You’re too fucking smart, aren’t you. Yeah, it’ll be worse for me. But snitch if you want. I’m not making any more deals.”

He shakes off the hand, and Brian makes a feeble little sound.

“I wouldn’t snitch,” he draws back. “You—you _helped_ me—”

“Good,” Pat says, forcing his back to uncurl, tone to gentle. “Then don’t worry about it.”

The kid looks, honestly, a little lost. “What can I—how—what should I do?”  

“Nothing. She bought my story. I don’t think she’s even suspicious, not anymore. I took care of it.”

“By taking Lamonte?” Brian’s voice is sharp and thin, like a needle. “And…that…that other…?”

Pat shrugs. “This time I took him. Next time, he’ll probably want you, though. And Legs can fucking have Duvall. He’s an _asshole._ I dunno how she stands him. She’s a tough bitch.”

Brian doesn’t say anything at this, but his face looks _anguished._ Maybe he’s stupider than Pat thought. But no, he couldn’t possibly have expected that getting off the hook this week meant getting off it _forever_. Maybe he’s just afraid of the cellar. But he’s still asking _questions_.

“The widow made you. Because you touched me?”

“Sorta. I just needed to convince her that I wasn’t touching you for fun—that I was broke. It wasn’t a punishment. But…yeah…she knows how to get to me. Remind me who’s boss.” Pat gives a half-hearted smile.

The kid’s hands are trembling, though, and he is starting to cry.

“For fuck’s sake. Stop that. It’s fine.” Pat grabs his shoulder, gives him a little shake.

It doesn’t make him stop, though. If anything, it lets loose the floodgates. Brian is suddenly awash in tears and choking sobs and apologies, hands fluttering uselessly at Pat’s chest— _I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry._ Pat lets him go, hoping that maybe a step back will stop this madness. That turns out to be a bad idea, because then the kid is clawing at his own face like he wants to leave marks and _moaning_.

“Hey, _hey_ , kid, fucking _chill_. It’s not like it’s my first time.”

Brian curls in on himself, rocking, pulling at his hair. He’s gonna be on the floor in a few seconds, and he’s gonna _hurt_ himself, like this, so Pat grabs him. It’s not hard, to pull him over to the bed. To catch his wrists firmly and pin them down. They’re so slender, and Brian isn’t really _fighting_ , just sobbing and struggling vaguely and endlessly, endlessly apologizing.

It takes a minute or so, before he stops, and is just looking up at Pat through teary hiccups.

“Are you done?” Pat asks suspiciously. “Because I’m not going to let you go until I know you won’t hurt yourself.”

“Yeah,” Brian says, and his voice is small. “But don’t let go.”

Pat acquiesces. He lets go of the wrists to shuck his shirt off, but then crawls into bed beside him. The kid curls into his chest, lets Pat wrap an arm around him, rests his head on Pat’s bony shoulder. It feels good and painful, to be so close.

“I g-got you in t-trouble,” Brian hitches. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I d-didn’t know.”

“Hey, it’s fine.” Pat soothes, an arm around his back. “I knew. I knew what I was getting into, and I did it anyway. That’s not on you.”

“But _I_ asked you. And then you had to lie.” Brian is looking up, but not at Pat’s face. Probably at his neck, where the bruise is, from the belt. “And to…to…You don’t—you don’t do that anymore. You stopped. And then…I…and you…he _hurt_ you…”

He’s crying again, crying so your heart would break. It makes Pat feel strange—sad, and also weirdly happy. It’s been a long time since anyone’s shed a tear over him. It’s not that no one cares. Legs does, of course, and probably Jenna. But they haven’t got feelings to spare, if he has to fuck someone he doesn’t want to fuck, if he makes a mistake and pays the price. They’re practical.

 _Shhh_ , Pat coos into the kid’s hair. He smells nice, clean, like cotton and childhood. “Stop. I told you. You’re not the first thing I’ve fucked up. And you won’t be the last.”

Brian is calming now, sobs turning into little spasms and shivers. Pat sees a few different possibilities for how the evening could go, spiraling away from this moment. A few different ways that he could convince the kid that it’s all right. That it’s not his fault. That given the choice, he’d do it again.

It doesn’t matter what he picks, anyway. The risk is worth it; the candle’s already lit.

He pulls Brian’s face into a kiss, and feels good when the salty lips below him reciprocate, fall into the soft suggestion of what to do. He tongues down the kid’s neck, alternately hushing and humming. Brian is limp and loose below him, letting his chin be tilted back, letting Pat’s newly smooth face rub across his skin.

“You’re gonna get in trouble again,” Brian’s voice trembles.

“It’ll be worth it again,” Pat says fervently before sucking into his collarbone, leaving a shadow of a mark, pushing his shirt up to get a rough hand on soft belly.

Brian’s tense, and Pat hopes it’s leftover adrenaline and not fear. “You need to tell me now if you want me to stop,” Pat says, lowly. “I can give you some more practice. I’d _like_ to. But you don’t owe me this. You can just go to sleep and I’ll leave you alone. Scout’s honor.”

The kid takes Pat’s hand, at that, and pushes it onto his crotch. He’s getting hard, which is surprising, after that crying fit. But the flush of red from sobbing and thrashing somehow suits him. It makes him look rosy, pink with desire. Pat could almost believe that he _wants_ this.

“You’re incredible,” Pat lets himself say. “Irresistible. I haven’t done this…for fun…for _years_.”

How this little changeling is getting confessions out of him that torture wouldn’t, he doesn’t know. But when he says them, Brian’s eyes drink them in. He _glows_.

“I had fun, last time,” Brian says, shyly, letting his hand come up to Pat’s neck as the taller man shifts to straddle him. “I thought it would hurt. But it felt _good_.”

“I know,” Pat smirks to hide his blush. “You told me. Multiple times.”

It makes his dick throb, how the kid shoots a look at him. “You liked it too. I saw. You _want_ me.”

“Kid,” Pat breathes out a warning, putting a thumb to touch that mouth without conscious thought. He pauses when Brian parts his lips easily, lets him thumb the lower one open, licks his tongue out just a smidge. “You don’t fucking _understand_ what you saw. I want to take you _apart._ ”

“Do it,” Brian says, and starts to suck wantonly on Pat’s thumb. His eyes are dark and big and fixed on Pat’s face, and the kid is a _natural_. He’s too good—he’s too convincing—it’s so easy to believe—he’s only had a week of practice, and he’s shoving aside years of carefully-constructed barricades in Pat’s heart with reckless abandon. The widow will make her money back on this one, that’s for sure.  

“Jesus,” Pat blasphemes, before he captures those lips again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Brian sleeps like the dead. Or at least, so it seems.

That’ll get shaken out of him soon enough. Most of the girls sleep in the day—Pat’s no exception—it’s just how the work is. It’s a few hours ‘til dawn, and Pat’s not even tired yet.

Still, he can’t quite bring himself to move, with the kid curled up in his arms—faint outline of his gauzy hair—chest rising and falling just with his wisps of breath.

These aren’t thoughts Pat should be having. Things he should be seeing. Or touching. But somehow everything seems less dangerous, in the grey smoke-dark.

Brian’s face is so quiet, untroubled. Like he’s never had a moment of grief in all the world. Like somehow none of it had touched him—the flares, the war, the disasters, none of it. His face looks like how Pat remembers faces looking, back home, before. Like he’s never needed anything so badly he was willing to get hurt.

Just goes to show, everything lies. Even beautiful things. _Especially_ beautiful things.

“What’re you thinking about, Patrick,” the kid murmurs.

Pat startles a bit, and Brian peeks open an eye. He can see the glint, even in the dark.

“Thought you were asleep,” Pat says, softly.

“I was,” Brian presses himself closer. “Dream woke me up.”

“Mmm.” Pat doesn’t ask. They have so little privacy, in the mews. Surely the kid’s entitled to his nightmares, at least.

But Brian seems to want to talk, although he does it into Pat’s chest, so soft and low that it’s hard to hear. “I was dreaming about leaving Baltimore.”

“Good, or bad?”

“Good. I mean, leaving Baltimore was—not good, but the—in the dream. I got to. I got to say goodbye to people. Properly.”

The way his words step nimbly onward, stumble, stop, and then collect themselves. It’s shattering.

“Left in a rush?”

“Yeah.”

“Alone?”

“No, no,” the kid says quickly. “Not alone.”

Pat strokes a thumb down the bare shoulderblade. His skin’s so _soft._ Delicate, in a way that Pat’s never was, he doesn’t think. He strokes again, a few more times. Maybe Brian’ll go back to sleep, if Pat just lets the conversation trail off. If he pretends he’s gotten stuck, connecting the dots.

He doesn’t want to know what happened. Getting into sob stories is never a good idea, unless you’re trying to scrape some charity out of someone, and even then that doesn’t work so good. Tearjerkers are a dime-a-dozen these days. The details don’t matter. Whatever hasty retreat the kid beat out of Baltimore. Whoever went wherever with Brian before, and why they’re not here now. Whatever little knife-point of regret is daggering into the kid’s sleeping mind, reminding him—

“Why’d you leave Maine?”

It wrong-foots Pat, the question, whispered into his chest like a secret.

“I—I—it was a long time ago, kid.”  

“Sorry,” Brian draws back, curls in on himself. “You don’t have to tell me. I know you don’t—we’re not—I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

Oh, if anything could be worse than those hitching, tragic fragments of sound, it’s _this_. The cold patch on his chest that Brian’s breath had warmed. The way his soft spine curls back in apology. The way the darkness swallows him, when they’re not pressed together. As if he were never there.

Pat decides. “It’s fine, kid. Ask away. It’s just not very happy, that’s all.”

“Even if it’s not happy,” Brian tucks his head back down, and the soft waves brush his chest again, and where the kid’s forehead touches his skin Pat feels like all that’s in him is being channeled, being drawn out, through this point of contact, like a needle filling with blood.

“So ask, then.”

“I just wondered what you—were doing, before. Before the widow.”

“Nothing. Just living on the street. And not too well, either. I was starving.”

“Because of the war? Your—” he hesitates “your family…?”

“Kinda. My mom died in the first flare, actually. She had a pacemaker. So y’know. Just dropped her, right there.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian says, but he shouldn’t bother. Everyone old enough has stories like this.

“It’s fine.”

“What about your dad?”

“We made it together, for a while. Came down South, ‘cause we heard it was better here.”

Brian gives a dismal little laugh. “It wasn’t.”

Pat wonders what it was like to be in Baltimore during it all. To be in a city. Hell, probably. He’d heard at least a few stories up from Boston. Bread lines and riots and martial law. _They took all the fokkin’ cahs,_ he remembers a bald-headed traveller with a shaggy beard reporting at the town hall. _But at least down theya the pipes wehk._

The optimists said the government would make it up to Maine eventually, with food and water and doctors and a plan for how to put it all back together. The pessimists said they never would, that they’d all been left alone to starve or freeze or run out of antibiotics and nobody south of upstate New York would even know it happened.

The pragmatists said look, we don’t need them. We’ve got guns and we’ve got propane, we’ve got deer and seeds and old beat-up junkers. We’re better off on our own.

It was those folks that turned out to be the trouble, in the end.

“Who’d y’all join up with,” Brian murmurs. “That far north, it’d be—what, Quebeckers?”

“Nah. We tried to dodge all that. Got out before the war got serious up there.”

“Ah. I forget y’all had another year or two.”

The silence trails.

“I miss chocolate,” Brian says suddenly. “They used to pass it out in school every Friday. For a really long time, they stuck to that.”

Pat quirks a smile. “I think the only thing that would’ve made it all worse was if I’d still had to go to school.”

Brian laughs, then, not a bitter voiceless sound but a real one, of surprise. “Oh, fuck you, _really_? You lucky bastard.”

“Our priorities were a little different up North, maybe. Much as my dad would have loved the free daycare.”

“What happened to your dad,” the kid asks, and his tone is so light and plain and normal that Pat finds himself answering before he even thinks.

“He was…well. I dunno. I don’t think he ever—it’s fucking hard enough, keeping yourself alive, after the war. Let alone a kid.”

“He left you.”

“Yeah,” Pat says, and doesn’t let himself sound sad about it. “Gonna be honest—it was better that way. He’s probably dead. Or he would have killed me.”

Brian’s breath huffs against his skin, something small and wet, maybe an apology.

“So how did we end up talking about _my_ nightmares.”

A whisper-laugh. “Sorry.”

Brian is playing with the hairs of Pat’s arm, twisting them between his fingertips. It hurts a little, the way he’s tugging. It’s hard to mind. It’s hard to mind anything this kid tugs at, no matter how old and buried. It hurts, and Pat finds he wants to let it.

God fucking damn it.

Pat permits himself to take in his hand the kid’s chin and press a solemn kiss into the center of his forehead like a benediction. Brian’s holding his breath, hovering, hesitating—then pushing out the air deliberately, letting it curl through the space between them.

The fingers on Brian’s chin just don’t want to let go.

“Go back to sleep,” Pat murmurs. “Before I start looking for ways to distract myself.”

Brian takes this as a cue to pull close and lick into Pat’s mouth, brave and bold and sleepy-eager. He doesn’t continue, though. He just kisses, like that, and then stays close, lips pressing into Pat’s skin, waiting, tempting, offering.

This was never going to end well. It was always going to slice Pat straight open, he’d known that from the first. He just hadn’t known he’d have to tie his own tourniquet.

He lets his fingers tighten.

Sometimes, you just gotta let yourself have what you want.

 

 **everybody wants the same thing** ****  
**everybody wants the same thing** ****  
**no trading places on the chain gang** **  
** **it doesn’t matter how you swing it, everybody wants the same thing**


	4. here we come a-wassailing

**but I don’t feel like dancin’ when the old Joanna plays** ****  
**my heart could take a chance, but my two feet can’t find a way** ****  
**you think that I could muster up a little soft-shoe gentle sway** **  
** **but I don’t feel like dancin’, no sir, no dancin’ today**

 

 

The kid gets a lot of work. A lot of walking-work, mid-city, so Pat doesn’t often drive him, but the girls let him know. _He’s popular,_ Ashley sulks. _I used to be the cute one._ Legs complains he’s too good at games— _he’s ridiculous, we had to stop playing Werewolf completely._ Griff slouches, round-shouldered, cross-armed, and bitches: _it’s buckwild, Patrick, how much that little fucker makes when he’s basically just chomping my flavor twenty-four sev._

 _Did y’all make up,_ Pat drawls disinterestedly. _Or should I look forward to the cage match._

Griffin shifts, pulls his head to the side, stretching his neck. _We’re good. I got over my bullshit. There’s room in this town for two baby brothers, I guess._

He doesn’t sound particularly sorry. He never does, anymore.

Anyway. The kid’s popular, and even though this shit’s kind of a zero-sum game the girls really don’t hold it against him. He’s too sweet for that. They call him _Bri_ and love his painted nails and his quick jokes and how he’ll sing for them, anything they like. _He’s as good as a radio_ , Jenna says, making Pat wonder if she’s actually old enough to remember radios, or if that’s just a turn of phrase. They teach him cards—apparently his poker face is trash—and ruffle his hair and hold him down to tickle him until he screeches like a banshee.

 _His feet are super good,_ Ashley says, with that subdued tone that sounds flat on anyone else, but on her it’s a lot, an overexpression of wicked delight. _He kicked Legs in the face, though. He’s squirmy. You’ve really gotta pin him if you wanna get anywhere._

Patrick doesn’t inquire further into that.

Seems like Brian’s adjusted well. Pat’s a little surprised, based on those first-week hysterics. But it’s good. Kid’s gotta learn quick if he wants to stay alive. The better he fits in down at the mews, the more likely he is to stay out of Pat’s hair. Safer for both of them, that way.

  
  
  
  
  


 

A bright loud banging shakes Pat awake—

fucking _hell_ it is _early—_

and he does what he always does when he wakes up sudden, which is shoot up into awareness without moving too much and try to remember where the fuck he went to sleep.

The world sharpens. Bed, just bed, his normal bed, like every day, but it’s fuckin’ early and—

_rap rap rap_

_—_ someone’s knocking, what the—

his body gets up without asking his permission and starts shoving on clothes rushed and desperate. The hair on his arms is standing up straight and he moves slower but talks faster than he used to and there’s nowhere to hide in here so—

_rap rap rap_

“Just a sec!” he calls because he might as well, whoever the fuck it is, that door is gonna be no barrier to whoever wants a piece of him so—

he breathes out twice—

 _oh Lord do not remember our former wickedness_ —

and opens the door.

It’s Brian _._

It’s eight-o-clock in the fucking morning, and it’s Brian, and he’s _smiling_. He’s looking fucking jaunty, even. Fresh and clean, hands in his pockets and smiling.

“ _Christ_ , kid,” Pat swears, brushing back his hair with a shaky hand. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The kid looks cute, even as his face falls. God, he’s really got the right eyes for it. He carries it off so well, chagrin or surprise or apology or any of that menu of melancholy-earnest emotions that all just look like grim-jawed snarky anger on Pat. Some people are just born with the right face for penitence, perhaps.

“I’m sorry!” Brian says, and of course he looks like he means it. “Were you asleep?”

He rocks on the balls of his feet. He’s got on a silky green shirt and slim jeans. His sleeves are rolled up. Working, then.

“I just don’t get visitors.” Pat steps back, gesturing Brian in, letting his heart rate thud back down to its normal sluggish morning thrum. Or close to it. “Not unless they want money.”

“Sorry,” Brian says again, but there’s a breathy giggle with it, this time. “I was nearby. Have a couple hours. Thought I’d say hi. I can go, though, if you want.”

“No, no. Make yourself at home.” Pat closes the door behind him. There’s nowhere to sit—no creature comforts, really, just the bed and the floor. “You want something to drink? I got tea, and I got whiskey, and there’s your choices. Sugar, if you can’t take it straight.”

“Gosh, I’d _die_ for tea,” Brian admits, and Pat busies himself with that. The kid’s settling himself cross-legged on Pat’s bed as if he owns the place. Pat finds he doesn’t much mind.

“It’ll take a minute. The gas is out,” he says, while he sets the sterno alight.

“It’s fine,” Brian sighs happily, holding his bare feet. He must have already shucked off his shoes. “Actually, it’s fabulous. Can I _really_ have sugar?”

“Knock yourself out.” Pat leans back on the counter, smiling lightly. It’s too early for this—for anything—Pat’s not got up before noon for a _decade_ —but it’s good anyway. “Haven’t seen you ‘round much, but I hear they’re keeping you busy.”

Brian scowls a little, but it’s cute, wry. “You’d better believe it. I’m running all over. Don’t people in this town have anyone better to do?”

The little turn of phrase drags a laugh out of Pat—rare. “You booked later today, then?”

“Double.” His expression darkens. “I think I’m s’posed to get a ride, from one to the other, by the way. I could walk but the timing might be tight.”

“I’ll be there. Just lemme know where and when,” Pat shrugs easily. “Kinda surprised I haven’t been driving you more, to be honest.”

“They usually book me in the same quarter all day so I can just walk. Guess this guy was special.” The kid looks sidelong for a second. “And I think maybe the widow’s trying to remind me that she’d rather wear out my shoes than catch me fucking you again.”

“Got off pretty light, if it’s just that?” He’s cautious, because if the widow’s done something worse, the kid may not want to talk about it. Pat wouldn’t.

“Yeah, just that.”

The water’s hot and so he sets the tea to steep. “Be my guest,” he gestures at the little jar of sugar.

Brian is quick as a flash at the counter, touching the teaspoon with reverent fingers. “It’s almost a shame to just waste it in tea,” he breathes. He’s scooping the white granules, making a soft scratching sound.

“Mmm. It’s not very good tea, so there’s that.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Brian plays with it some more. “I think—” he carefully weighs out a little mound, just a smidge. “Since you’re—I’m already—I’ll just—”

He darts a quick little half-guilty look at Pat, and tips the white grains right in his mouth. It’s funny, how fast he does it, like Pat might change his mind if he sees his precious sweets being used in such a way. His face gets—rather blissful—cute—he closes his eyes and lets it rest on his tongue.

Pat snorts at him, amused, and Brian’s eyes flick open. He flings himself forward, all limbs and quickness, and wraps himself around Pat, kissing up into the taller man’s mouth. It’s—well, _sweet_ , and grainy—but melts into sweet and warm and wiggling-wet with a pleasant gentleness that makes Pat hum. They kiss like this, tongues warring and wrapping, until the sweet taste is long gone and they’re just indulging other cravings that also get rare exercise.

Brian pulls away, satisfied but a little nervous. “Sorry. Sorry to take any. I just—”

“It’s okay, kid.” Pat says, gently. “I did that the first time too. That’s why I keep a little around. I don’t really eat it much. I just like to have it. Makes me feel like a fucking human. Here.” He fixes the kid’s tea for him, drops in a heaping teaspoon. It’ll be too sweet like that, but he thinks Brian won’t mind some sticky sludge in the bottom.

The hands take it from him, two hands, clutching the cup. His face has a tight little expression that looks like regret. “You’re feeding me a day’s wages.”

“A day’s wages for me or for you?” Pat snorts. “I never made that in a day. But it’s fine. No one here’s eating it. I’ve had it for a year. Dunno why I keep it, even.”

“I’ll share,” Brian decides, nodding to himself, and Pat smiles because he’ll play along with whatever rationalization gets those trembling little fingers what they desperately want. “C’mere.”

Brian parks himself on the floor, sitting back against the bed, sucks down a sip and beckons Pat over. Pat toys with declining, telling the kid he doesn’t owe anything, but it’s too good, to straddle his hips and tilt the kid’s head back and suck into his sweet little mouth.

“Why are you so nice to me,” Brian breathes, in between sips, when the cup is carefully tucked between his legs and Pat’s brushing soft hair out of his face. “No one’s this nice. Not for free. Allegra made me sing to her for an _hour_ just to borrow her eyeliner.”

“What’d you sing?”

“Mostly Rihanna,” Brian shrugs. “I had to do a whole album. It’s _hard_ , I don’t sound anything like her. I tried. She loved it.” He pauses. “I might’ve done it, even without the eyeliner, if I’d known she’d like it that much.”

“Just remember, kid,” Pat brushes his lip. “Don’t let your guard down. No one’s innocent around here. Especially not me. I’ll do you dirty one day.”

“Let’s say I wanna deserve it, then,” Brian says coyly, biting Pat’s fingertip in a manner that leaves _nothing_ up to interpretation.

“You’ve got a _double_ tonight, kid,” Pat chides. “You’re not meant to wear yourself out on me.”

“I won’t tell,” Brian cuts him off, quick as anything. “You can do whatever you like with me. I’ll suck you off. You can fuck me. I know how to make it good, now.”

Pat closes his eyes. It seems inconceivable, that the kid could have learned so quickly. To be so wild and enthusiastic and wanton. To blink up, gaze uncomplicated through sultry lashes and offer Pat the world. He really _is_ a natural. If Pat’d been like this, he might have actually made it in this town.

“No thanks, kid. I’ll get you off, if you like. But I’m not gonna tire you out.”

The kid’s expression is so _pained_ at this, and Pat just can’t understand it. “Please, Pat. Let me do something for you. All I do is get you in trouble and take your things.”

“Could you—” Pat wavers, for a minute, presses a hand to soft hair. He wants to ask for something, because the kid is so fucking insistent, but he hesitates.  

“Anything,” Brian says again, with a face that really means it.

“Would you sing for me?” Pat whispers, soft. “It doesn’t matter what.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

The kid’s voice is like a dream. Pat doesn’t know anyone else who can sing—maybe Griff can carry a tune, half-assed, but it’s not _good_ —and only a few clients ever play anything. It’s an expensive indulgence. Not something you trot out for your whore. But he’s older than the girls, and he remembers back when music was free and easy to find, back when anything he felt he could bury in a song.

Brian can’t possibly remember that far back, not with clarity, but either he had a good memory as a kid or whoever he was with must’ve had some resources, for a while after. He offers up a lot of songs, pop and folk and sultry ballads and even sweet little ditties that Pat distantly recalls from TV. Jenna was right. He’s like a jukebox.

“Gimme a year and I’ll pick another top-forty,” Brian says, sipping his tea.

“I don’t much care,” Pat admits. “I don’t—not a lot are coming to mind. How do you know all the _words_ to these?”

“It’s a long story,” Brian smiles a little funny. “I was in an acapella group for a few years. It’s silly, you’d think people’d have better things to spend their money on, but we got a lot of work. I learned a lot of songs for different requests.” His face settles a little. “Fuck, I miss the piano. The singing is easy, you can take that with you. But I’d give a lot to get my hands on one of those.”

Pat throws his memory around a little. “A few clients probably have ‘em, but I don’t know if they’d let you play. I mean, maybe. I don’t remember any offhand.”

“It’s okay,” Brian shrugs. “Can’t have everything.”

“They have one down at the cabaret,” Pat says, suddenly. “It’s a little above my raisin’, so I can’t get you in, but if you’re good and you lie you might manage to sneak in for a hot second. Ask Legs. She’s got a friend over there.”

Brian’s fingers thrill up Pat’s skinny arm with excitement. “I will. Thank you. _Really_ . Please—tell me what to sing, I’ll do _anything_.”

Pat sighs, because he knows what he’d like, and it’s silly. “You don’t know any hymns, do you?”

The expression softens. “No, I’m sorry. Never learned any. I can do tons of Christmas carols?”

“I’ll take it,” Pat nods. “Nothing cheery, if you please. Don’t you dare bust out _Jingle Bell Rock._ ”

The kid actually has a good repertoire of plaintive seasonal stuff. He does _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ with all the verses, and _Three Kings of Orient_ , and _Away in a Manger_ and _The First Noel,_ and _O Little Town of Bethlehem_ and a half-dozen other ones that Pat’s never heard before but were certainly written for church choirs. He can hear it, in the way the notes fit together, high and bright and cold.

It’s only September, and it never fucking snows here anyway, and there’s no reason it should hit him that way, but it’s enough that Pat hangs his head and weeps.

  
  
  
  
  


 

Brian keeps dropping by, but at least not quite so _early._

Considering how much the kid works, it’s crazy how often he finds some time to slip away to Pat’s. It’s not like a slow evening is _that_ rare, in the business—you can’t fucking work all the time—but Brian’s day off is Tuesday, and at least he has the goddamn sense not to disappear to Pat’s apartment then. The girls would notice. There’s not much to do but gossip, in the mews, and the widow makes it worth your while to get gossip back ‘round to her. Especially gossip about people getting out of line.

But it seems like the kid’s discreet enough. He’s always got a good excuse. Cancellation. Finished quick. Wife came home. Running errands today. Wrong address. Begged off for the night. They swapped for Ash.

Oh, of _course_ it’s going to bite them both in the ass someday, Pat has no illusions about that. And it’s going to be hellfire and damnation, when it comes, but the widow’ll probably forgive them. Brian’s worth some trouble. And Pat—well, she always forgives Pat. Eventually.

“Who’re you seeing tonight?” Pat asks, as Brian’s lying flat on the floor, skinny knee pointing up.

“I dunno his name, he’s new to me, they just call him _Dee—_ ”

Pat snorts. “She. That’d be Delilah. She’s a good one. She just wants a nice soft sweet thing to curl up with for the night. She’ll spoil you rotten. I bet she’ll give you candy.”

“Ooh,” Brian lets his eyes close. “Oh god, don’t get my hopes up, Pat.”

“Act shy, is all I’m sayin’. She’ll love bribing you.”

Brian nods at the ceiling, and taps his foot. He always asks Pat about clients. At first, it was awkward. Terrible, even. Pat’s got a lot of memories of a lot of people in this town, and they aren’t fuckin’ pretty. But he owes it to the kid, to dredge them up, if he can save someone a little pain.

Of course, there’s plenty of folks Pat’s never seen—he’s not everyone’s type, and he’s been out of the game for a while. But he still drives, and he hears the gossip. The complaints. The gloating over good tips. The play-by-plays. It’s funny, how ridiculous people are around whores. Some folks are guilty-tender and give you gifts like they can make it up to you. Some are business-like, done this a thousand times, and you _really_ gotta be something if you want a good tip. Some folks are assholes, but those make the best stories, because if anything goes wrong it’s so fuckin’ _funny_. Allegra and Russ, especially, tend to pull the real villains—he has a hangdog look, she a stony stoicism—and they spin triumphant, laughing yarns afterward about how ridiculous their latest stupid self-important monsters were, and how well they got paid to play along.

Brian’s not quite so cavalier, yet. Which, fair enough. It takes a while, before that cynicism sinks into your bones, and you can find this kind of work _funny_. Pat’s not sure if he’s ever managed it. But some people can handle that kind of thing better.

“Ailes?”

“Eh, he’s boring. Didn’t you have him last week?”

“Yeah,” the kid grimaces. “But he cancelled. I think he doesn’t like me. So I’m trying to figure out what to do about that.”

Pat tries to remember any detail that might be useful: likes, dislikes, stuff that might be worth a tip. Brian asks a lot of fuckin’ questions, but it’s kind of understandable why. He’s working a hell of a lot, and he’s new, and he’s pulling in some pretty weighty clients. Some of the richer, pickier, more _dangerous_ folk in this fucking town. Some of these guys could crush you like a bug—and not in a _sexy_ way.

“I’ve only seen Nash once, kid, and frankly we didn’t do too much. Just a nice clean fuck.”

“What was it _like,_ though,” Brian pushes, with urgency.

“I mean, he’s the same as anyone, mostly. Direct, but not mean. I didn’t get any bruises.”

“I heard…” the hand pushes his tawny hair back. “I heard he’s scary. A hit man, or something.”

Pat sighs. “No, kid. He’s a fucking _assassin_. But that’s not your business. Try not to think about it.”

Brian wraps his arms around his knees. He looks fuckin’ terrified, and Pat gets it. It’s not rational. You fuck a lot of _bad people_ , in this business. But it’s still something different when someone wraps their arms around you and you know _for sure_ that they could squeeze the life out of you and laugh while doing it. He talks through everything he remembers about Nash, because honestly, the guy just wasn’t that bad. Quiet, simple. Brian’ll do fine.

Some of the other johns are trickier.

“The bodyguards’ll pat you down before you go in. Don’t freak out. They’re probably gonna be professional. And if they’re not, they’re not gonna take long, anyway.

“More than one?” Brian says, a little nervously.

Pat sighs. “Yeah. Two, or three, at least. In theory only one has to touch you. No promises, though. Some guys are more professional than others.”

Brian’s pacing, pulling at his hair. “Two or three. Okay. Will they…will they _come in_ with me?”

“One will. He’ll stay in the room, but he won’t touch. Just sit in a chair and look bored.”

“Will he have a gun?”

“Yes, so fuckin’ behave yourself, okay?”

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” The pacing intensifies. “I’m so fucking _scared,_ Pat. Please. Please help me.”

Pat tries his best. He doesn’t know if it’s _comforting_ , his descriptions of sickening wealth and carelessly-laid out firearms, but he tries. He also tries to repeat that no one thinks it’s worth murdering a whore—even if yes, technically, Brian’s life and liberty does have a price and Wesson could certainly, certainly pay it, many times over.

And sometimes, Pat gets too caught up to be a good informant.

“Why do you always want the _play-by-play—_.”

“I’m sorry,” says Brian softly.

Pat’s _not_ crying. He’s not. Its just… it’s been a while, since he’s been at that house. It was one of the first ones he ever went to, and they took a _shine_ to him. He cried pretty, in their opinion. How many times had he cried for them, in the end? Dozens. God, he hopes it’s not a hundred.

Brian’s crouching in front of him, shaking his shoulder gently. “I’m sorry, Pat. I just—it makes it easier—to know—”  

“Look, some things I just don’t talk about.” Pat says grimly. “Here’s what you need to know. That one’s a fucking _monster_ , and if you know what’s good for you, you won’t cry. You’re not getting more out of me than that.”

“Okay,” Brian says earnestly, and pulls him to the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

 

 

 **cities come and cities go just like the old empires** ****  
**when all you do is change your clothes and call that versatile.** ****  
**you got so many colours, make a blind man so confused.** **  
** **so why can't I keep up when you're the only thing I lose?**


	5. somebody told me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is the most graphic allusion to sexual violence; still off-screen though)

**another constellation dies** ****  
**do what you want 'cause it's your own sky** ****  
**just call me when the phone stops ringing** ****  
**thanks for coming by** ****  
**i'm just glad I'm on your good side** ****  
**where it's smoldering or freezing** **  
** **it's never all that easy to decide**

 

 

 

It’s a while before Pat gets called into the office again—the widow’s on the phone, so it’s not _trouble_ , probably—but every time he hears his name in her voice he can’t help but jump a bit, these days.

He’s not even sure what he’s afraid of. Whatever happens, it will have been worth it.

The widow is angry, but not at him. She _slams_ the phone into its cradle. “ _Sa mère_ —the fucking _nerve_ —a _discount_!”

“Am I making a house call, ma’am?” Pat says politely, because negotiating with customers is one of his things. He’s not a good talker, necessarily, but he’s more diplomatic than Travis, and sometimes he can shake money out of a recalcitrant john. Plus, he knows most of them. He knows how to push. To get what he needs.

“Yes. Patrick—” Her eyes barely soften. Pat tries to force his obstinate muscles into relaxation, to train his posture in a way that explains to his insides that there’s nothing fucking wrong, there’s nothing to be worried about, she’s not mad at him, no need to twist around like that. “—I need you to go pick up Brian. He’s at 323 Trenton, and he’s five hours late, and _apparently_ he can’t walk home.”

His stomach was right to be nauseated all along, and in celebration it goes crashing through the floor. His voice is steady, because it fucking has to be. “Need me to get some cash out of them?”

“Yes,” the widow sniffs, angrily. “See how he looks. If he’s too busted up, you get a cleaning fee from them, a _hefty_ one. Then you tip him and wash him up and give him the day off.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Pat says, and hopes that the strain comes off as annoyance.

“You better,” she growls, then softens. “You will. I know you won’t kick the boy when he’s down. That’s why I’m sending you.” With nothing to scold him about, her frustrated energy goes to rearranging things on her desk, her long plastic nails clicking against the wood. “I am _done_ with these new customers, Patrick. They put one of my girls out of commission every fuckin’ month. It’s bad for morale and it’s bad for business. I should just stick with my regulars.”

Pat nods. He needs to get out of here, while she’s still ranting, still angry, before it becomes a problem that his face is so empty. “Should I tell them not to call back, then, or…?”

She sighs, a long-suffering sigh that trails through distaste and regret and other little embellishments but ends, as always, on bare-faced practicality. “No. Just impress upon them the import of good behavior. I’ll send Travis with you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pat takes this, blessedly, as a dismissal. “Will do.”

Because Travis follows him out, he finds it in himself to make sure his hands don’t shake.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

The ride is short. The house isn’t one he’s worked before. It’s nice. It’s _always_ the nice houses, where the real madmen live.

They walk up to the porch together. Travis hangs back, though, crosses his arms, leans himself against the siding, raises an eyebrow as if to say _well, get on with it._ It’s not that Trav is stupid—he talks fine, actually, or he used to. He just doesn’t do anything he doesn’t have to do, and all he has here to do is look menacing and step in if someone takes a swing.

Pat sets his jaw as he rings the doorbell. _This isn’t going to be pretty, Patrick,_ he tells himself. _You can handle it. Remember. You’ve seen it all before._

A slovenly bearded twenty-something answers the door, swaggering drunk, even though it’s 11am. “Oh, it’s you— _Brett!”_ he calls up the stairs, rudely. “They’re here for the whore!”

Someone, presumably Brett, makes a ruckus inside. God, he hopes Brian is conscious. And alive.

“I’m also here for a tip,” Pat says flatly.

“He doesn’t _deserve_ a tip,” the brawny asshole at the door scoffs, folds his arms, sneers right into Pat’s face like he’s trying to decide if Patrick is someone he can use up and toss out, too.

Pat curls a nail into his palm. “Tipping is mandatory if he can’t work tomorrow. Call it a fee, if you like.”

The sneer lengthens into something nastier. “It’s his own damn fault if he can’t walk. I thought you trained them better than this.”

The rage and worry and sick hatred grind together so fierce that it’s pushing him out of his body. His ears are ringing, so that he can barely hear himself speaking, so that it doesn’t seem like it’s him who is forming the words.

“Apologies for the inconvenience.” The voice he hears come out of himself is just mildly annoyed. Bored. Polite. “Feel free to put in a request, if you want someone different next time. But unfortunately, it doesn’t change the matter at hand. He’s valuable. If he’s too banged up, we’ll need to renegotiate our price. Travis—” he inclines his head “—will handle the widow’s interests.”

The fuck starts to say something, but Travis steps forward, and Travis’s forearm is as big as Pat’s thigh. “Fine,” the fuck recalculates, stepping aside. “Here he is. I’ll get your money.”

The world contracts, slows. Brian is standing, but only just. He looks absurd in the lavishly-tiled entryway, half-dressed and swaying. Pat assesses him—the feeble grip of his hands, the blood, the drooping head with wild, tangled hair—and strangles his emotions in their cradle.

The guy, who Pat would murder with sewing scissors if given half the chance, shoves Brian out the door. Pat has to catch him so he doesn’t go slamming into the ground. To hide the way his hands are shaking, he plunges one in the kid’s hair, yanks his head up. He’s blotchy and covered in bruises, his hair is sticky with cum. The eyes are blank, pupils blown—Pat can’t even see fear in there, right now; the kid is just fucked out and probably not aware of where he is.

Pat hears his own voice, and it sounds frustrated. “Travis. He’s a fucking mess. I’m gonna have to spend all afternoon dealing with this shit. That’s two of us out of work today, and I’ve got to drive him around hell’s creation besides.”

“Sounds like that’ll be two hundred for them,” Travis says gruffly, muscling his way into the doorframe. “And two hundred for me, since I don’t like making house calls. If I have to do it again, I charge double, _capiche_?”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

The psychopath hems and haws a bit, but Travis gets his money. Meanwhile, Pat gets Brian in the car. He lays him across the back, whispering, “Are you ok? Kid? Kid?” No response.

Travis comes back looking pleased with himself.  

“I’ll drop you off at the widow,” Pat says to Travis flatly. “You can fill her in. I’m supposed to clean him up.”

Travis gives him a glance, but nods. “You takin’ his tip?”

“I’ll take half. He’s high as a kite, gonna sleep for 20 hours I bet, and I’m going to spend my whole fucking afternoon getting this mess out of the car.”

“Fair,” Travis grunts. He flits another look at Pat. “He looks pretty bad. Maybe he needs a few _more_ days?”

Pat gives a feral grin. “You think you could shake some more cash out? Be my guest, Trav. Tell the widow I said he’s out of commish two days. You keep whatever else you get over that. All right?”

“I remember why I liked you,” Travis says as he hops out. “Good luck with the stains.”

As the tough disappears, Pat risks a glance back into the seat.

“Kid. _Kid. Brian._ Are you awake?”

There’s no response.

“We’re going to my place, okay? I’m gonna clean you up. Just hold tight.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Getting Brian up the narrow stairs is a balancing act. The kid’s legs are like jelly, his feet catch and his knees buckle without warning on every other step. They finally get in the door, though, and it’s only five steps to the bed, where he can lay the kid out and really start to survey the damage.

The bruises are scattered, careless, ugly. The worst are on his hips, probably just from being driven into something. A desk, a bookcase, something like that. There’s a ligature around his neck—broken blood vessels around his eyes—they’d probably choked him out at least a few times.

 _“Jesus,_ ” Pat breathes, as he touches around the kid’s lips. He can smell vomit, but he doesn’t know if that’s from the drugs or the shame or from getting throat-fucked so hard he puked all over himself.

He’s still unresponsive as he lets Pat strip him, turn him over, examine his back. Nothing crazy here. A few bite marks. His ass is bleeding, as expected. It’s hard to tell how bad it is.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, to the quiet room. “Let me run a bath. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Lifting Brian into the tub is a trick, as is getting around behind him. Eventually it works, though, Brian’s head lolling back limply on Pat’s shoulder while Pat gently cleans him off. He tries not to push too hard into any fresh bruises, but it takes a little scrubbing to get off the dirt and blood and…everything.

He’s sponging off skinned knees when he hears a faint voice.

“…p-pat? w-where…?”

“Welcome back, kid,” Pat says, gently. “You’re safe now. You’re at my place. In a second here I’ll finish cleaning you up.”

The body in his arms lets out a shuddering sigh of relief, and lets Pat continue his ministrations, wiping away grime and rubbing shampoo gently into his hair.

“Can you stand? So we can shower off and get to bed.”

“I don’t know,” Brian says distantly.

“Put your hands on the wall. There. I’ll help you up. C’mon.”

They get to an approximation of a standing posture, Pat’s arm wrapped tight around Brian’s chest. The shower spray rinses off the soap, and everything else, and the kid lets himself be lifted and moved and toweled off. He’s trying to help, but his hands don’t seem coordinated, and he sometimes lurches suddenly as if the room has started to spin.

“Don’t. I got it.” Patrick pushes the shaking hands away, as Brian reaches for his pile of filthy clothes. He pulls the kid over to the bed and presses him down, then finds him a clean white t-shirt to slip over his head. It’s overlarge, and pointless, really—there’s no way he has any shame left—but maybe it’s not so much for modesty as for getting a barrier between that body and this fucked-up, ruthless world.  

“Thanks,” Brian says, and curls up on his side, and almost looks normal for a second, if you don’t search too hard into his face.

It’s midday, and Pat’s so fucking _tired_. It’s not like staying up all night is unusual. It’s just—

well, he’s just tired.

He hesitates before he climbs into bed, though. “Is this… do you want me to leave? So you can get some sleep.”

“No!” Brian startles, half-sits up, clutches at his leg. “Don’t leave. _Please_. I…” he sucks a breath. “I don’t think I can sleep.”

“That’s fine, kid.” He arranges himself, sitting, with Brian’s head in his lap, so he can stroke through the damp hair, and listen to the uneven stuttering of his breath, and stay awake himself so he doesn’t leave the kid bruised and bleeding and all alone.

They lay like that for a while, Pat stroking rhythmically, Brian unnaturally tense. He’s coming down off of _something_. Might be a hallucinogen. Might be molly. Something that makes his jaw clench and his eyes flutter and refuse to close properly. Something that has him dropping straight into REM sleep and then snapping back out with a gasp. It looks unpleasant, right now. But hopefully it made it easier, at least a little bit.

Pat murmurs things. They’re stupid, but he tries. _You’re fine. I’ve got you. It’s all right_. _You’ve got the day off. Two days, even. They’re not going to send you back. You can just rest._ Stuff like that. In a nice low voice, soft. He hopes it helps. He certainly hasn’t helped in any other way.

“Can I ask you something?” Brian’s voice is faint.

“Anything,” Pat says, and he means it.

“What did Lamonte do to you?”

“Oh,” he grimaces.

“S-sorry…you d— ” the breath stammers, trails off into something Pat can’t make it out.

“Kid, kid, it’s fine,” he twirls a lock of hair around his pinkie. “I’ll tell you anything you want. He’s a nasty little man, but you can ask. But I dunno if you should fish for that, right now. You’re still high. You might just want to talk about—nice things. While your head gets right.”

Brian rubs his head against Pat’s fingers, encouraging him to start petting again. Pat does. “Okay. Tell me about a nice one, then.”

“All right. Back in the day—it was pretty long ago, before Legs even—the widow used to have a friend named _Nance_ —” He drawls his way into a long yarn. It’s an old memory, how Nance used to hire him just to wash her windows and sneak him candy, because she thought he had a sweet face and he sometimes deserved a _night off, our little secret, right Patty?_ She taught him how to knit, and fed him enough to keep up with his growth spurt, and let him just sit in her garden and read her books aloud. Lots of trashy romance novels, which he tried hard not to giggle at, but sometimes he would catch her eye and she would be smiling too, and she would say _well that_ _is_ _a bit silly now, isn’t it?_ and they would crack up.

Brian seems to like that story, so when he asks for another, Pat stretches his memory to come up with a few more—ones that are good or sweet or at least _funny_ . The nervous young guy, not much older than himself, who’d lost his nerve at the last minute and just taken Pat out for coffee instead. The john who fell asleep five minutes in and Pat just decided not to wake him, and when he finally did he was so embarrassed that he paid for the whole night _and_ tipped besides. The time Allegra cold-cocked a lady, because she spit on her in the street, and they’d thought the widow was going to punish her but she’d just laughed and said _well, bet she won’t do that again._

Brian’s in and out, for all this. He keeps falling into that dazed state and jerking, snapping out of it. It’s cruel, whatever they’ve given him. The comedown’s hours-long and jittery.

Pat keeps talking, mostly just to keep himself awake. It doesn’t much matter, what he says, he reckons. But the kid must be listening in some capacity because every now and again he barks out a little laugh, or he murmurs _I’m sorry_ , or he asks questions, when Pat’s stories start to run dry.

“How old were you?”

“Not a kid. Probably older than you.”

Brian glances up with his soft hazel eyes. The pupils are almost back to normal, but the stare still has an uncomfortable intensity. “I’m probably older than you think, Pat.”

“I don’t think about shit like that, kid.”

“How old were you _,_ though,” he pushes, like it’s important.

“I’d’a been twenty, that year.”

Brian closes his eyes and hisses, hard. “So when you started—you were _sixteen—”_

“It really doesn’t matter, kid,” he lets his mouth quirk. “Why keep track. I don’t think I’m gonna get to collect social security.”

“I’m not a _kid_ ,” Brian bites out, more lucid than he’s been, but also more distressed. “I’m not sixteen, Pat. I’m not even twenty. You’re wrong.”

Pat pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Look, it’s—” he sighs. “Sorry. I don’t mean to—it’s not about the number. It’s just how it is. You’re a kid. I see it on you. You can probably pull it off until you’re forty. Sorry. It’s a blessing and a curse. I can knock it off if you don’t like being reminded.”

Brian’s expression softens. “No, don’t stop. I just—” he pauses. “If you don’t care, it doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t care,” Pat confirms, returns his hand tentatively to Brian’s scalp, rubs the fluffy hairs between his fingers. Hesitates. “Though I’m glad I—” He pauses. “I’m glad I underestimated. You coulda sold me that you just-turned-eighteen, in a second.”

“Oh good,” Brian smiles a little, and it’s tired and bleary-eyed and distant but it’s also more like normal. “ ‘Cause that’s my usual bit.”

Pat permits himself a grin. “I’m sure the other old bastards love it, too.”

“One of my charms,” Brian murmurs, closing his eyes, and letting Pat’s words start their pitter-patter again.

  
  
  


 

 

 

The stories keep coming. They seem to soothe the kid, even those that aren’t so happy. Sometimes Pat hitches, but the little face is so desperate, hanging on his every word. He’s trying to process this, Pat realizes. Trying to shove a lifetime of Pat’s experience down his own throat, so that he can get up from his knees and go to work and know what to _do_.

Brian cries, sometimes, but more often he just shivers like something horrible has crossed his mind and dives into another question, and it’s usually harder than the last. Eventually, _eventually_ , he circles back around. Can’t ever let something go, this kid.

“Pat, please tell me.” Plaintive, tired. The kid’s exhausted. Nearly asleep. It’s past sundown. “What did Lamonte do to you? When you took him for me. Did he hurt you?”

Pat sighs. “Pretty standard shit, kid. Hit me a little, called me names, fucked me in the ass real rough and tumble. He did tip, though. I can’t complain.”

“You can,” chokes Brian, and his eyes are teary. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, kid,” Pat says, gruffly. “You’re free to do what you fucking want. I chose that over letting the widow find out. Or over walking off into the sunset to fend for myself. Or hanging myself in my bedroom that morning. There’s _always_ a choice.”

Brian looks down at his own wrists, which are rubbed raw from rope burns, and Pat’s heart constricts.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You’re right,” Brian says softly. “I chose this.”

Pat closes his eyes. “I didn’t mean _that_. I didn’t—I knew what Lamonte was like. He didn’t tie me up, either. And it wasn’t—was just a couple hours of rough sex, not a day of…of…hell… ”

“It wasn’t hell—I asked for it,” the kid touches the bruises. “Because I couldn’t stay still.”

Christ.

“Look, kid. That’s not your fault. Sometimes you just can’t stay still. Anyone knows that. I’m a pretty tough cookie, but you hit me hard enough and I’ll flinch, believe me. Or get me high off my ass.”

“They didn’t hit that hard. I was just scared.” Pat wishes he would quit talking but he also doesn’t want to stop him. “They gave me something to—to relax—because I was—s-shaking.”

Pat closes his eyes. “Sounds like hell.”

“I just…it took _forever_. I thought the drugs would make it fuzzy, but...d’you think I’ll forget this, Pat? Please tell me I’ll forget. I need to forget this. I need to forget all of this.”  His face is anguished, angry. He’s aware, now, really awake and aware of where he is and what he is and what’s happened. For all the good it does.

“You’ll forget,” Pat lies, because what else can he say?

“I kept thinking. Like you told me. What’s the reason I’m doing this. Why am I doing this. But I don’t even have a _good_ reason, Pat. I just—I can’t—what if my reason isn’t worth it? But I can’t go back now.”

It’s been so long, since Pat cried, that the sensation is almost foreign on his face.

“Pat?”

“It’s nothing, kid. Just rips me up a little, that’s all. Because you’re just a kid.”

“I’m _not_.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m really okay, Pat.”  

“You’re not.”

Pat lets himself topple over, finally, pull the kid into his arms, until their shaky, tattered breaths and rusty quiet weeping eventually match, round out into sleep.

  
  
  


 

 

 

The kid doesn’t quite return to normal, Pat doesn’t think. Not for days. The girls talk about it. He’s flat, distracted. He still works, though. He pushes through. Like anybody.

“ ‘dyou ever get your hands on that piano?” Pat asks, when Brian’s sitting quiet in the back, off from some frying pan into some fire.

“Yeah,” Brian smiles shyly, and his face is a bit lighter. “Thank you. Legs got her girl to sneak me in. In the morning. I pretended I was warming up for my set later. No one asked any questions. I was _so_ rusty, Pat. But god, it felt good.”

“Good,” Pat smiles.

“But you _lied_ to me.” Pat’s heart clenches a bit, until he sees Brian’s teasing pout in the rearview. “You said in this the mews everyone’s always scamming everyone else. Getting as much as they can. But they wouldn’t take anything for it. I offered. They didn’t even want a favor.”

Pat smiles and lets his voice drop into a conspiratorial whisper. “ _Shhhh,_ kid. You’re spilling all the fuckin’ secrets. Legs’ll beat your ass if she hears you’ve told me that. You gotta play your part, you hear? And I’ll play mine. I heard she made you eat her out all night. Got it?”

Brian laughs, and the last little clouds drift off from his expression. “Got it.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

A few days later, Brian’s got a late night. Pat’s waiting in the car, three, four AM. The usual pick-up, for people who don’t like to wake up with a hooker in their bed. It costs the same as morning, but some johns prefer it. In and out.

The kid’s a little shaky, as he stumbles into the car. Maybe just fatigue. Pat can’t see anything—any blood or bruises—and he’s not ruffled up, but he looks white as a sheet.  

He gets in the front seat, and puts his head in his hands.

“You all right, kid?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Pat, I’m okay,” he says, breathing through it. “Can you just—can we go to your place? Instead of the mews. I don’t think they’ll miss me. He bought the night.”

Risky business. He keeps playing this game, teasing a few hours out when Brian really _should_ be back. Patrick’s not stupid. He knows one day he’s gonna get caught.

“Sure thing. Let’s get some food in you.”

The kid stays bent over for most of the drive. He’s not crying, though. He’s thinking, maybe, which is a dangerous pastime, but he rejects Pat’s attempts at conversation. Whatever happened must’ve been bad. Maybe as bad as a week ago. But at least he’s walking, this time.

They’re close to home, only a block or two away, when Brian startles out of whatever trance he’s in, comes alive. His hands are rummaging around in his bag, looking for something rather frantically.

“You forget something, kid? I can take you back.”

“No, no,” he says, absently. “It’s all here.” Pat glances over to see what he’s fiddling with. Something shiny, flat, with a turquoise rim. It’s been so many years that Pat doesn’t recognize it right away. He wonders idly if it’s some new part of the kit, maybe makeup—or a mirror, that fits the rectangular shape better—until Brian’s finger taps it and it lights up and _shows the time._  

A phone. A phone. The kid has a _cell phone_.

Pat pulls in and turns off the engine and looks over sharply. He’s got a million questions, but the first thing he feels is just—immense curiosity—desire to touch—Pat hasn’t seen one since he was a child—

“What is—can I—”

Pat _has_ , however, seen a gun before. Had one pointed at him, even.

“Brian,” he swallows thickly. “What are you doing.”

“I’m sorry about this, Patrick,” The kid sighs and thumbs the safety. “I’m gonna need you to keep driving a bit further.”

 

 

 

 

 

 **this is the land of a thousand words** ****  
**but it seems so few are worth the breath to say** ****  
**except I’ll be looking after my own world** ****  
**and you just keep on saving the day** ****  
**i’ll try to stay but it’s in vain when you’re far** **  
** **I’m on the run to wherever you are**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wink* gotcha again


	6. brand new cadillac

**she's my man — and we got all the balls we need** ****  
**when you taste that pavement, you're amazed she smells your sympathy** ****  
**so bye-bye ladies, may the best queen hold the crown** ****  
**for the most bush sold on the levee, my my, how word gets around** ****  
**she strangles for a good time, and she kills my self-control** **  
** **she’s my man, don’t be too sad sonny, ‘cause she’ll never be your woman no more**

 

“Thank you, Pat,” Brian says softly. Presumably, for listening to directions. There’s not much else you can do that’s worth thanks, when you’re lying on the ground with your hands on your head.

Well, there’s a _few_ things. But the kid didn’t need a gun to have those.

The kid’s feet pick around him, crunching the asphalt. It’s quieter, out here on the edge of town. Not _quiet_ quiet, of course. The crack-of-dawn city sounds are just muted, murky, coming from a long way off. The rustling and croaking and throaty gulps of mourning doves drown them out.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

Patrick doesn’t really know what to say to that. It sounds sincere enough. Anguished, in that way the kid does. He’s good, there’s no doubt about that.

“I know you’re gonna get the shit beat out of you for the car,” Brian continues. It’s an understatement, that. “I put in a word. I tried. But I know the widow will take it out on you.”

Pat sighs into the asphalt. “I’ll live. Not the first time I’ve taken a beating for you.”

Brian sucks in a breath. The gravel crunches. “I deserve that.”

That’s above Pat’s pay grade, knowing who deserves what in this world. He doesn’t make moral judgments. It’d be too exhausting. He just takes it up the ass and doesn’t cry about it. But it _is_ worth something at least, here on his belly like a gutted fish, to know that he can make the kid wince. Even if it’s fake. It’s good to know that he’s at least worth faking for.

“Pat...d-dyou want anything from the car?” Little gritty sounds again. Kid’s antsy. Probably eager to move along. “Any of your stuff in there?”

“Nothing that costs a dime.” Pat turns his head, rests his cheek on the ground, so he can see Brian rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He doesn’t raise his head, though. He doesn’t want to see the look on the kid’s face. It was—he doesn’t _think_ Brian would shoot him. But you think that about most people, really, until proven otherwise. “I don’t need that stuff. It’s just sentiment.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Brian says hollowly. “Just tell me where it is. I know you have a rosary.”

“I’d rather you keep it, kid. I can’t afford to get worked up about stuff like that.”

Brian breaths out, slowly. “I’m sorry for using you, Pat. I had to, but I’m sorry for lying.”

Two steps. He’s crouching, now, at Pat’s shoulder. Close enough to touch, but neither of them reach out. Pat’s hands tangled in his hair. Brian’s hands tight on the gun. He’s white-knuckled. Like he might be psyching himself to do something. Leave, maybe.

God dammit. If the kid can fake…all of that—if he’s gonna…what’s it matter, then, what Pat says? A parting jab? A plea for mercy? A bit of advice—good spot, out in the wetlands, but better if you do it further from the road?

Pat sighs. “Don’t apologize for your talents, kid. You’re a good liar. We all do what we gotta do.”

“You always—” The voice falters. The fingers twitch. “Thanks. I’ll—I’ll leave you a little cash. I can’t do much more than that—people will ask questions—”

The money, when the fingers place it gently next to his head, makes Pat laugh raggedly. “Tips appreciated but not required, Brian, you know that.”

Brian hitches something that might actually be a sob—or at least a very well-constructed simulacrum. “I’m sorry about _that_ , too. For fucking you. For liking it. For all of it. For everything. I never wanted you to get hurt. Never, ever.”

He pauses. Pat wants to laugh at that, too, because it’s just too absurd, the words, the tears, the gun, the threats, the prickle of gravel, the thudding in his chest…

“I wish I’d picked Griffin—I wish I’d never done it.”

…how much he wants to punch the kid, to kiss him, to scream, how much he wants those fingers to reach out and brush his hair…  

“Well. Don’t wish that.”

The kid sniffs. He’s getting himself under control. “I’m...I’m going now.”

Pat doesn’t know what to say to that, either. Happy trails? Good luck? Fuck you? Goodbye?

“Goodbye, Pat. Please wait to get up until after I drive away? I’m so sorry.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Pat rolls onto his back in the grey pre-dawn. He’s aching, but not from work. Well, not from work that he’s _done_. He’s aching for the work he’s gonna do. It’s gonna be a long walk, back to the mews. And he’ll have to wait hours before the widow’s awake. And god knows how long, before he makes it up to her, for losing her car. She’ll forgive him, though, eventually. She always does.

He pushes himself up. Pretty soon he’s gonna need to move. Can’t sit here blubbering all day. What’s he crying for, anyway? Nothing. He’s not dead. He’s not bleeding. He doesn’t even have a broken arm.

Even the walk will be good. Help clear his head. Give him some time to figure out how to sell this. Not a lie, but just what shade of the truth. He’s had practice. If he does it real well he might even be able to stand tomorrow. If he doesn’t—

he can’t even muster any fear, imagining what she could take from him, now.

  
  
  
  
  


 

Pat’s feet don’t take him to the mews, though. They find their way to his apartment. Up the stairs. In the door.

Most things he owns—everything worthwhile, anyway—fits in a backpack. Except the bedding. But he doesn’t want that. He wants the aspirin and the earplugs, his camp stove and his candles. He wavers on the books. He has too many. They’re not worth the weight.

Still, he takes a couple. A mystery he liked when he was a kid. And one of the old bodice-rippers, from Nance. Sentiment. Pat’s always weighed down by it. But he just can’t help himself.

He wonders if he should bother locking the place. He decides to leave the key in the door. It’s not his problem anymore. There’s not much to steal, anyway—maybe a squatter might find it, by luck, and have a few days of bliss before his landlady finds out.

Hitchhiking’s rough, even in a city as big as this one, so Pat just sets off on foot. When the day’s started in earnest and the scattered old cars start drifting down the highway, spaced far apart, then he’ll roll his sleeves up and tie his hair back and try to look young and clean and desperate and worth the gas it costs to slow down and pick him up. There’s not a lot of chance. It’ll be a long day, if he has to walk all the way to the next town, but he can make it.

It’s not until the waking city sounds recede into the distance that Pat really asks himself what he’s doing. He doesn’t have a goal in mind, necessarily. He’s just tired of life being hard in the old ways. Brian was complicated, and he made things harder still, but at least he reminded Pat that life could be hard in different ways, if he took the chance.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

“Ain’t seen nothin’ like that, hon,” The pudgy lady at the front says. She’s frowning, but it’s in thought, not distaste, as far as Pat can tell. “Ask around when folks get in here. There’s a few that don’t miss a trick. ‘Specially cars.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” Pat ducks his head. “Can I trouble you—who’s the best to talk to?”

She lays out a few likely candidates, and Pat decides to go for broke because she’s got a pitying smile and doesn’t look like she moves too fast. If it comes down to it.

“And are any of them, um,” he pauses. “If I ask around for anyone that wants company for the night, ma’am, is there anyone I should avoid?”

“Oh, so you’re one of _those_.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly, draws back. “I can do it outside. I don’t mean to—”

She steps toward him, grabs his chin and tips it up. He flinches. She doesn’t hit him though, just pushes it left and right. “ ‘Salright. Got plenny of you. Jest hate to see you workin’ these scumbags. None of ‘em are worth a nickel. Can you smile?”

He does, immediately, as cheerful as he can manage, teeth wide and eyes uncomplicated. He thinks of Brian, while he does it. The kid was so good, at stuff like that. Pat’s a poor posture, but at least he’s in his gladrags.

“You can kip on the floor a few days,” she nods, “if you can figure out how to take orders and flirt a little. You’ll get enough tips to eat. If you steal anything I’ll cut your fuckin’ nose off.”

“Thank you ma’am,” he says with real feeling, and brushes back his hair. He has no idea why she’s being so kind, but he’ll take it, he’ll take it.

Tess is more than kind, actually, and feeds him, and lets him keep his tips. It’s been a long time since he relied on the random charity of strangers, rather than the widow’s reliable cruelty.

He leaves after three days. She’s kind, but he’s not stupid, and he remembers how this goes. Charity runs out. Cruelty can last forever.

  
  
  
  


 

 

Two people saw the champagne car head west, so he goes that way. He’s not _chasing_ exactly—that’s fucking stupid. Pat’ll take weeks to cover what Brian could in hours. He doesn’t give a fuck about the widow’s car. He knows Brian doesn’t give a fuck about him. If he actually managed to find the kid, he’d just get shot. It’d be worse for both of them.

Still, it gives him a little direction. Wherever Brian’s going, it’s fucking far from here, and that’s good enough. When the trail goes cold, he’ll decide what to do next.  

It’s been so long since he slept under the stars. It’s nice, actually. He used to hate it, because the aurora reminded him of his mom. It still does, but that doesn’t hurt as much anymore. She would have hated how the world’s become, but she would have liked the sky. How it whipped up with colors from time to time, unpredictably, incomprehensibly beautiful.

Well… _someone_ probably comprehends it by now. Brian must. He’s got a cell phone _._ No wonder he knew every song from the radio. He probably had a fucking iPod tucked somewhere in his clever little folds of clothes.

Pat indulges in the fantasy. Closing his eyes, he thinks of Brian’s slim fingers, so clever, tracing down his body, coaxing out of him good faith and favors and lust and so many things that Pat didn’t even know he could give, anymore. He doesn’t even really resent it. He’s just shocked he was worth the time to hustle, for a little sugar, a little information, a car that wasn’t his. Honestly, he probably would have paid that much, or more, just for the company.

He really _is_ just like them, after all.

Maybe the kid was lying, about the acapella group. That was a pretty crazy story, to explain how he’d spent the time since the war. Singing for his supper. He must be with _somebody_ , though. Somebody with resources. Pat didn’t know cell phones would work, even if you managed to find one, and get the juice to get it going, and have the sense not to use it when the sky’s on fire. Surely there are clever folks out there hacking that shit out, but Pat’s never met any, or if he has they weren’t so interested in explaining things to him that didn’t involve where to put his knees.

Still. Even if it was a lie, the kid _could_ sing. You can’t lie about that.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

There’s nowhere to go after Lafayette, because there’s no one keeping track of which cars are going by in a place as big as this. Pat tries, but of course it doesn’t pan out. He might as well keep going.

He flips a coin for west or north, and even though it lands west he decides to go north. He’s not going to get to snowy weather by Christmas—he wouldn’t _want_ to, anyway, Jesus, that would just make this all the harder—he just feels like heading north, sometimes.

Why justify it? His dad never explained, why come South. _It’s better down there,_ he lied, when Patrick cried and begged to be left.

_Fine. Freeze your stupid ass to death, then, kid. I’m going without you._

Pat still doesn’t know if he made the right decision, leaving Maine. There are no right decisions, maybe. You just decide, and take what comes.

  
  
  
  


 

 

Pat doesn’t make it all the way to Alexandria. His journey ends in what used to be Opelousas. There’s plenty of places to sleep, at least, with the houses all abandoned, but food and water are a bit trickier to come by. He pokes his head in a couple churches, desperately thirsty, but there’s no one giving handouts here that he can find.

Eventually he gives up on charity and trawls the street for anything inhabited—no bars, but one creaky old motel looks lively enough. He watches for a bit, to see if it’s just squatters or something like a business. It seems like money is getting exchanged so he just heads for the front door.

“You got food for sale?” Pat rasps at the guy in front, who looks leering and foul but also kind of like he might have been a bureaucrat, in a past life.

“Sure, man. You got cash?”

“Not much,” Pat lies, because not getting murdered is high on his list of goals for the evening. “I got enough for some water, though.”

“It’ll be five.”

“Fuck me, maybe I _don’t_ have enough.”

“What you got?”

“I’ll give you three. Or I’ll suck your dick.”

The guy shrugs, unimpressed. “I’ll take three.” He does, and after some persuasion accepts a blowjob for some general information. Yeah, the road to Alexandria’s pretty long, and not a lot of cars are gonna pick him up. Uh-huh, there’s people staying here going up that way. Who knows if they want some company, even if it’s well-behaved.

“You’re not pretty, but you’re good,” the guy grunts, as Pat gets up from his knees. “I’m surprised. You do that again in the morning, you can sleep here.”

Pat grins, negotiates for more water and even some table scraps. At least he has _some_ marketable skills. He settles in a back room for the night, and as soon as he’s left alone looks around for shit to steal. There’s nothing great, though. He nabs some scissors, and two good lighters.

In a cabinet, he’s shocked to find—at first he thinks it’s a ukelele, actually—but no, it’s just a tiny guitar. Like, quarter size, maybe thirty inches long. He plucks a few strings. It’s out of tune, but seems in good condition.

He pulls it out and tunes it up. God, it’s been so long, but his fingers half-remember. They had one for a while, back in the mews. Everyone tried to learn—Justin knew just enough chords to try and teach them—and Pat did okay. Eventually someone nicked it and sold it, of course, but man he missed listening to the brothers harmonize imperfectly on the roof and get into fights.

He misses Justin, especially. Griff was better, before what happened to him.

Fuck, Pat wants to take this. It’s not right, to do, though. Even if he left all the cash he’s got it wouldn’t be enough. And there’s no point to it. He’s not good enough to make money, playing songs, and someone’ll probably take it off him in just a few short weeks. But the thought of sitting on the road and strumming makes him oddly warm.

It’s stupid—but he fucking _wants—_ he decides to take it. He’ll leave as much cash as he can.

 

 

He never gets the chance, though.

  
  
  
  


 

 

Pat tries to catch a few hours’ sleep before he gets the hell out in the morning with his stolen prize. Sleeping is pretty easy in here—it’s dark and quiet—so when the door creaks open it wakes him.

Like usual, he orients pretty quick. He doesn’t startle. He figures he’s not in the way.

“The guy’s over there,” says desk man’s voice. Pat’s heart jumps on instinct—it’s _wavery_ , that voice, not bored—thin and polite and wavery and _afraid._ Why’s he—

“Thank you,” says a different voice, polished rounded consonants and no fear whatsoever.

A flashlight beam illuminates Pat’s curled-up body.

“Can I help you?” he says, sitting up.

It’s hard to tell, in silhouette. It doesn’t sound like one of the widow’s thugs. It would be pretty fuckin’ wild for her to go to all this trouble, just to track him down. But it’s possible.

“Evening, Patrick. And yes.”

He swallows. Not great, that they know his name. Worse, that there’re a couple of them, and they’re coming closer. Fear prickles his arms, the back of his neck. She wouldn’t send _two_ , that’s be madness, and they wouldn’t be wearing _suits_.

The flashlight beckons, just a little shake. “We’ll have you come with us, please.”

“All right,” Pat says, standing obediently, but they knock him out anyway.

 

 

  
**someday soon this dank lagoon’s gonna sink right into hell** ****  
**they’ll hide you from Big Ida at the sho’enough hotel** ****  
**the lady of the evening’s just a tombstone in your bed** ****  
**well my girl eats a wounded preacher ‘tween two loaves of bread** ****  
**I know she’s up to something** ****  
**but how can I run when she’s just** ****  
**keel-hauled twenty-one to nothing** **  
** **I’ll stay next to the steel coal oven**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry for cliffhangering twice in a row my dudes forgive meeeee


	7. 4' 33"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was especially challenging for me in getting the plot in my brain onto the page, so if any of it makes sense at all, thank **spacegirl** :)

**now there’s never gonna be an intermission** ****  
**but there’ll always be a closing night** ****  
**never entertain those visions** ****  
**lest you may have packed your baggage** ****  
**first impressions are cheap auditions** ****  
**situations are long goodbyes** ****  
**truth so often living dormant** **  
** **good luck walks and bullshit flies**

 

 

“You did it clean?”

“Yessir,” Brian lies with a sharp nod.

“Good. We’ll check, of course. But I believe you.” He smiles. “It was a good cover for you, Bee.”

Brian lets his chin dip and his mouth slant, to show that he knows that’s an insult. He’s not thinking about it, though. He’s thinking about his mistakes.

It would have been easy, to just knock Pat out on his front doorstep and get the hell away. He could’ve done it right. Left evidence of a struggle. Taken everything out of Pat’s pockets. Scattered shreds of his clothing, left bloody handprints on the ground, taken the car.

Pat would have put it together. He’d already done the legwork, anyway. Seeding the story with the girls. _Brian’s been acting weird lately_. _We’re worried about him. He keeps saying someone’s following him. He walks around town so much, with so much cash in his pockets…_

A story would have materialized in Pat’s mind. He’s smart, and he’s practical, and he knows that the world is ugly. He would have come up with something simple and gruesome. Something that made sense to him. Something with no loose ends.

Something where Pat would have mourned.

Brian feels the rosary press against his chest, below his shirt. Sentiment. _I can’t afford to get worked up about stuff like that._ Patrick was so smart. He knew how to stay alive. But sometimes Pat did the stupid thing, anyway. Sometimes he decided it was worth it. Brian was grateful, that Pat had taught him that.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

It feels disgusting, now, the hands checking Brian over. Odd. It’s never bothered him before. It’s clinical. He used to really like it, actually. Not because it’s comfy—sitting on the metal table, blue fluorescents, flimsy weird paper gown—but because it means it’s _over_ , whatever it was, whatever put him in here in the first place.

“Swallow,” the nurse says curtly, handing him water and a cup of pills.

He snorts, because if Pat were here, he’d say _bet that’s the first time you’ve heard that one._

The nurse stares at him, flat, until he complies.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

“Bri! How’re you? God, it’s good to see you. How’d it go?”

“Really smooth. As good as our job in Biloxi.” Brian says easily, which to her means something like _Oh god Laura I really fucked up._

“Great,” she smiles, and it doesn’t reach her eyes, because she’s not trying _that_ hard to hide her worry. No one’s watching, probably. Or at least, not very hard. “Tell me all the juicy bits.”

He wrings his hands a bit.  “It was messy, Laura. Lots of wet work.”

She crinkles her nose. “Ugh, save it, then. Jonah told me some of it. You boys are _gross_.”

The way her tone is, light, mocking, anybody listening would think she was teasing him. She isn’t, though. He can see it, in the creases of her face. She’s worried about him. He knows why. He didn’t really tell her, what kind of job this was, before he left.

“Jonah shouldn’t’ve bugged you with details.”

“I asked,” she shrugs. “So sue me, I like to know what you’re up to. This was a _long_ one. We were worried that you were—” a pause “—having trouble.”

Bri’s not sure what kind of trouble she means, exactly, and bounces on his heels while he tries to decide whether to tell her he had some or he didn’t have any, really. Laura takes in his nervous energy, his wringing hands, his fidgeting. She’s feeling something, so her face is blank. Her eyes flick over him, and something she sees must bother her because she draws him into her arms. Her hand presses firmly down his back, knuckles rattling the knobs of his spine in a way that isn’t soft but is very comforting.

“Why’d you take this one,” she murmurs in his ear, and rests her head on his chest.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he says softly. “I can pull my weight. You and Jay needed some time off. Running down those hackers took you _months_.”

Laura sighs. “That was mostly desk work on my end, Bri. Easy stuff.”

This doesn’t mesh with what Brian remembers—the bags under her eyes, the endless coffee, the late-night sweeps for rogue electronics. Jonah was the runner, mostly, for any surface work, but Laura still was haggard and jumpy. Honestly, Brian prefers deep cover to shit like that. He gets to lose himself a bit, in a character. Meet new people. See the stars.

“This was easy, too, Ell,” he detaches himself from her, and sits down on the cot. “Just a lot of little pieces of intel to run down. Took a while. Jonah helped me along.”

She scowls and folds her arms. “Yeah, he told me how he _helped._ Why’s he always trying to sell a plan that involves taking drugs.”

Brian laughs. Jonah liked nothing more than being issued a little regulation Dixie cup of ecstacy or LSD or ketamine or whatever. “He did great. It worked exactly how he thought it would.”

“He just likes a plan where he gets to rough you up.”

“I do _not_ ,” Jonah strikes a pose as he comes in the doorway. “He did most of that bit his own self. He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

This is not entirely true. Brian had to talk Jonah into helping. A bit more than he’d wanted to.

 _I need to have real bruises, Jay,_ he’d said, and made his voice hard, shoving his hand into Jonah’s broad chest. _Pat’s no idiot. He’s not gonna buy it unless it’s real._

Jonah didn’t like it, he didn’t like it one bit, but he took Brian’s direction. Brian was always better, at props and costuming, at making sure he looked the part.

“You had at least a little fun, I think.” He lets his gaze drift to Jonah. It’s more of a question than a statement, and it’s answered with a smile and a round-shouldered shrug.

“I just like to get a chance to see you work. You really put on a show.”

Brian shuts his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot lately.”

Jonah’s teeth click, once. He sits down, too, on his cot across from the siblings, and exchanges a look with Laura. They’re worried about him, Brian knows. They’d be more worried, if they knew more. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He _can’t_ talk about it, not when ears could be listening.

God _damn_ it, he wishes they’d never had to leave Baltimore.

“It turned out alright, though, right Bri?” Jonah prods, gently. “It worked. He bought it. You got what you needed and got out just fine.”

“Yeah,” Brian grits his teeth. “Thanks for the help hustling it along. I didn’t—didn’t want to spend any more time on that job than I had to. ”  

Laura’s hands wring the blanket. She, and only she, can hear when he’s lying.

“Kinda surprised he spilled just for a sob story,” Jonah scratches his chin thoughtfully. “He looked like a pretty tough customer, at the house.” He raises his gaze slightly, to Laura. “We really pulled out all the stops, Ell. Blood, sweat and tears. He just yanked up Brian’s head and bitched about getting his car dirty. A real lifer.”

“He had a soft spot for me,” Brian will _not_ let his voice sound pained. Not now. “Yknow how it is. You act real tough when your boss’s muscle is at your shoulder. But he was pretty upset.” He pauses. “He thought I was—well. Something special.”

Jonah just looks at him, then, and Brian doesn’t attempt to interpret the thought in his eyes.

“Uh-huh. That why you picked him out?”

“I didn’t. Just got lucky,” Brian says, and it hurts so much because it’s true. “He was a perfect mark. Knew everyone, saw everything. Smart. Generous. Just desperate for a little affection.”

“Hm.” Jonah raises an eyebrow, and Laura breathes in like she’s going to say something.

The lights flick off then, unannounced, as always. Fluorescents are like that. No sound. Just one minute, everything can be seen, and the next minute it’s pitch black, and you’ve gotta scramble to find your things by touch. No soft little flickering candlelit evenings down here, playing cards and squinting to tell them apart and letting Jenna braid his hair if she promised to teach him some new lyrics.

Brian finds he misses the mews. It was never _really_ dark there, not like this.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Laura and Jo give him some space to ease back out of cover. They’re used to it by now.

It’s just how Brian works. He’s not like Laura, who grins and cackles and flirts and drops it all at the end of the day as fast as Legs did. He’s not like Jonah, who’s flat and plain and straightforward, and somehow manages to fit in most anywhere without changing himself much at all.

Brian gets _entangled_. That’s why he’s better at lying, because he lies and also tells the truth. He can dig inside himself and find the nervous med student or the skittish busker or the mama’s boy poet or the scrappy acrobat or whatever he needs to make it work. He can make friends fast, with whoever he needs to. He can while away a few hundred hours, settling into his new self, feeling out the corners, finding the best and most useful parts. Even his first solo job was a full six weeks.

 _You can’t put him in for that long,_ he remembers Jonah barking at their handlers in dismay when he’d got the assignment. _That’s fucking suicide! He’s brand new._

 _Well,_ Cee drawled in that maddeningly calm way. _You signed the contract, so one of you is going. We prefer to invest in the one with the best chance of success, but…_

 _Let me do it,_ Brian insisted. _I’ll be good, Jay. You guys don’t even know the cranial nerves._

Six weeks at the clinic had been…a lot. He’d learned a lot of things. How to read a chart in a glance. What tone to use, for morbid jokes during late-night shifts. How to look innocent when you’re caught somewhere you’re not supposed to be. When to stop CPR.

Cee gloated, when Brian made it back with the files he was supposed to and several hours of gossip besides. He taunted Jonah about it— _what were you worried, for? not confident in your little friend?—_ and generally was a dick. That was normal, for him, but they didn’t know it yet.  

Jonah had sense, so he held his tongue until they were back in their room. Laura was gone, that time, working something on her own. Brian let Jonah press their foreheads together, and ask him a dozen dozen whispered questions, until the worry leaked out of his voice.

_That fucking G-man said you hit some snags, but he wouldn’t tell me what. What happened?_

_Just some tricky marks, Jo,_ Brian assured. _Tight-lipped. It took some time._

_A hell of a lot of time._

_Yeah, they said I wasn’t very efficient._ Brian dips his head. _But at least I got it done._

_They don’t fucking know shit. You’re brilliant. You got a great face._

Brian smiled, wanly. _I do okay. It’s weird to be looking for secrets. Not just, like, cash._

 _Are you sure you’re okay with this?_ Jonah muttered.

 _I’m good, Jo,_ Brian murmured. _It was fine. I met some really nice people._

_That’s not what you’re supposed to say._

_I’ll never get anyone to tell me anything if I don’t make friends, Jo._

Jonah sighed. _Fair. I just worry about you. I dunno if you’re cut out for this. I wonder if I—_

 _I can handle it,_ Brian assured. _This was a good idea. At least we’re not in jail. Or dead. Or—at least we’re together. You saved our asses. This is our best option._

 _For now,_ Jonah breathed, like an oath.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

A week or so later, he sees it. It’s just good luck, really, that he spots it on the way back from the bathroom. It’s not like the hallways are very interesting to look at. Concrete, tile, flickering fluorescents and samey storage rooms. They don’t keep anything valuable down here. Just tools, and costumes, and agents, and other replaceable things.

But Brian always keeps aware of his surroundings, whether he’s up on the surface or in a boring military bunker. _CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_ Laura would bark right behind his head, when she was first teaching her brother the ropes. There’s nothing quite like trying to learn how to pick locks when your ridiculous sister might sprawl out of a stupidly tiny air vent at any moment and kick you right in the spine. _You gotta think faster_ , she’d grin, while he coughed and sputtered and pulled himself up.

In the end, he hadn’t made a good catburglar, anyway. He’s better when people get to see his face. But at least he learned enough to keep a sharp eye, to know that knowing things is the best insurance policy, no matter what you’re doing, no matter who you’re working for.

It’s Pat’s shoe, that he sees.

Complete luck, that he sees them. He might have missed it. It’s in the bin, with all the others. Shoes for costumes, a rotating collection, with the newest on top. These are black boots, quite nice, if well-worn. It’s just that… they’re worn in a familiar way. A scuff or two. That’s all.

But Brian remembers things. He’s clumsy, and loud, and he can’t pick locks for shit, but he’s got the bare minimum of usefulness—he can look with his eyes and remember what he sees.

And he remembers these shoes.

Dear god.

Brian fucking hates good luck. It’s random. It’s uncontrollable. It has nothing to do with how smart you are, or how talented, or how quiet, or how careful. Nothing to do with what you want to happen or how hard you tried to make sure it would. It might earn you praise or payment or a few days off, but in the end you don’t deserve it, and you’re at its mercy.

It reminds him that everything he has can be taken away and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Brian climbs into Laura’s bed, in the pitch blackness, and breathes in her ear. It’s a rough way to wake up, he’s sure, but he needs her and he needs her _quiet_.

“Shit,” she mouths against his hand. “What the fuck, Bri?”

He lets go to cup his hands around her ear, so he can whisper. “They have Pat, Laura. They have him…oh _god—_ what do I—what do I do?”

She pulls his hands away so she can do the same, her fingers over his ear. On the way she brushes back his hair. “Bri, Bri. Calm down. It’s okay. You know how they are. They’re just checkin’ on your loose ends. Let them run their old FBI files, Cee’ll ask him some questions, whatever.”

It’s agony, how long it takes to switch positions, to get his hands cupped on her cheek again. It seems almost like he doesn’t need to. Like his pounding heart should drown out the sound. “You don’t understand, Laura. They’re going to—we have to get him out of here—we _have to_.”

He can’t see her expression, but he knows it’s annoyed. “Bri. Be reasonable. They’re gonna rough him up a little, but he’ll be fine. Just chill. What’s he even know.”

Brian gives a little wail, and it’s probably the fact that it’s audible, more than the fact that he’s crying, that tips Laura off to the fact that this is something _big._ She sits up and buries their faces together, under the blankets, smothers their fevered whispers as best she can.

“Brian. _Brian_. What does he know?”

“Way too much, Laura.” He can’t help gripping at his hair, and she’s unpicking his fingers by instinct, her nails scratching at his palms. “Enough to get him killed.”

“Fucking _hell,_ Brian,” she growls furiously. “What the fuck did you _do_.”

“I—I—” She won’t let him pull, so he just rocks into her shoulder hopelessly. “I—he knows I have a phone, Laura.”

She hisses out a breath. “How the _hell—”_

“I showed him, I showed him.” God, it sounds so much worse, when he says it like that, to her, says out loud how bad he’s done. “I just—I panicked—I couldn’t—”   

“They’re never gonna let you up there again,” Laura breathes, and her voice is shattered. He screws up his face against the disappointment, the shock. “With a fuckup like that.”

“I don’t _care,_ ” Brian breathes into her neck, because what the fuck does it matter? If they don’t. If he never makes up for it. If he’s stuck doing desk work until their years are up. “They’ll fucking _kill him,_ Laura, you know they will.”

She pauses, and breathes in and out, a little rattling shift of breath. He knows she’s reevaluating. Taking in this new situation. Rolling with it.

“Okay. Okay. How good a liar is he.”

“Good. But he doesn’t—Laura, I didn’t even tell him he’s supposed to lie.”

“You _really_ —fuck. All right. Dyou think he’s already spilled? Brian, do we _all_ need to get out of here? How bad have you…”

“I think he’s tough,” Brian’s voice would break, if it weren’t already a breathless whisper. “But I dunno. I didn’t tell him _anything,_ Laura. I just… I couldn’t…

“Wake up Jonah. I gotta get us in there, and it’s gotta be _tonight._ Move your butt. If we need to fuck with surveillance I need at least two hours to do it. And it’s not gonna be good for any of us.”

“Thank you,” Brian kisses her, and goes to wake up Jonah.

 

 

 

 

  
**when the headlights guide your way** ****  
**you know the place is right** ****  
**when the treetops sing and sway** ****  
**don’t go to sleep tonight** ****  
**that is when you see the sign** ****  
**luminous and high:** ****  
**tomorrow’s not what it used to be** ****  
**we were born to die** ****  
**happy yesterday to all** **  
** **we were born to die**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so when i said it was gonna get more cheerful i didn't strictly mean "in chapter seven"  
> and also i didn't mean "in chapter eight"  
> BUT HEAR ME OUT


	8. son of a preacher man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is The One In Which We Earn Our Nastier Tags.  
> (it is skippable, plotwise!  
> (if you want to avoid some gratuitous violence and an explicit but brief mention of nonconsensual sex))

**it's not easy having yourself a good time** ****  
**greasing up those beds and bettors** ****  
**watching out they don't four-letter** ****  
**fuck and kiss you both at the same time** ****  
**smells like something I've forgotten** **  
** **curled up died and now it's rotten**

 

Pat’s not a rookie. He’s not stupid. He knows they haven’t _really_ started to hurt him yet.

So far, all pretty cursory. Punches to the gut. Kicks to the head. Moving stabs out a few sharp bright points of pain, but that’s probably just for convenience. They haven’t even asked him any questions yet. This is the appetizer.

He lets his head hang. It still fucking _hurts_. He’s getting too old for this shit, although he reckons he probably won’t get a chance to get much older, not the way this is going. It’s a real professional operation. Cement everywhere and no windows. The cuffs cut into his wrists when he puts weight on them, but he can’t complain. He’s not dangling, he’s just lazy. If his feet weren’t on the ground, his shoulders would already be dislocated. They aren’t. They’re just aching a little, at the stretch.

It’s not a problem that they took his clothes, but it does unsettle him a great deal that he can glance down and see his nakedness. Who the _fuck_ is wasting batteries on lighting him up, wrenched up here for nobody? Sure, it’s very dramatic, his bare chest and ass and all of it exposed to whatever persuasive techniques their twisted minds will imagine—

 _he’s_ certainly not going to waste time imagining—

but the point is he’s not worth all that. If they have this kind of money, they could just pay to do this to him at high noon on a nice bright rooftop in the countryside.

There’s a strange little steady _tat tat tat_ sound. Pat wonders if it might be a clock, which is a stupid thought, but his head’s still ringing a little, all right? Not that bad, not enough to make the room spin, just his reasoning’s a little bit slovenly, uncombed—groggy-stumbling out of unawareness into the sudden light, half-blind and not really coping yet with the whys and wherefore.

_tat tat … tat … tat tat tat_

Eventually he realizes it’s the drip of blood from his nose.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


A shadow moves. Pat starts talking fast.

“I’ll tell you anything you want,” he offers. “I’ve got no allegiances to anybody. I don’t know anything interesting either, but… apparently you think different.”

The shadow snorts. Two shadows, actually. Hard to tell, with the light in his eyes, but they look maybe like the ones from before. The ones who he thought were too prim and proper to hit him.

“Interesting to us is maybe different than interesting to you.”

The voice is kind of amused. It’s possible that he thinks that Pat is doing a bit. Or just that he thinks it’s funny, the situation. Pat can kind of appreciate that. This is certainly the most trouble anyone’s ever gone to, just to have a chat with him.

This has to be about Brian. Pat’s life isn’t interesting. He’s just another whore. Anything about him, you could find out by paying him a dollar. For two dollars, you could get a lot more than that.

But the kid had a _cell phone_ , and he’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to Patrick.

“We’ll start with the basics. What’s your name?”

“Patrick Gill.”

“Employer?”

“The widow. Over in ‘Leans.”

“You from there?”

“Nope. Up north, originally. Used to be Maine.”

The other shadow is scratching with a pencil. Either something about Pat is interesting to these people, or he’s into some real weird figure drawing.

It makes Pat uneasy. Blood and bullying and functional brutality are the facts of life, maybe not for everybody, but certainly for people like Pat. But there’s not usually fucking _paperwork._

“How long you been workin’ for the widow?”

Pat pauses, thinks. “Ten years, give or take.”

They turn at each other as if this is interesting, but Pat’s not keen to hide it. No point.

“That’s a pretty long time to associate with a known criminal, Mr. Gill. You know what the potential sentence is, for that?”

Pat blanches. “You’re _government_. Holy shit.”

_Christ—_

—of all the fucked-up wonderings that he’s been pushing from his mind—

—he didn’t even know the government made it this far south. His body thrills with goosebumps. There are a lot more things to be afraid of, now.

It’s kind of novel, this feeling. Fear kind of wears you out, you see, if you give it enough years. Lose enough things you thought you couldn’t live without. Risk enough danger just to feed your stupid ass. Walk into enough houses where you’re definitely, definitely going to get hurt.

But, well. Seems like Brian’s started a bit of a trend, rekindling old things in Pat that he thought were used up, sifting ashes until some fuel is found, muscling aside his old excuses and setting it alight.

Pat’s fucking _afraid._

These people have the means to find a new way to make Pat hurt. They could break his legs and pay for a doctor and break them again. They could needle him up with some mysterious substance that makes him _like_ it. They could send him up north of Upper Montana and make sure he lives out a nice long life without ever speaking to another living soul. He wouldn’t be surprised if they could dig up his dad.

The taller guy smiles. Pat can hear it on his breath.

“Yes, Mr. Gill. We’re with the government. And you’re old enough, I think, to have gone to school, so I think you’d know at least a _little_ about your duties as a citizen.”

“Homeschooled,” Pat rasps, even though it’s useless. “So I might be a little rusty.”

The shadow shifts. Maybe he thought that was funny. Hopefully. The guys seems to like smiling. “We aren’t here to prosecute you, though. Lucky for you. All we need are a few pieces of information. Be quick and honest and you’ll be on your way.”

 _God_ he knows it’s a con—but his heart stops clawing out the cage of his chest anyway, at the promise that maybe there’s something— _anything_ —he can do to get out of here.  

“Shoot.”

“We understand you had a meeting with one Brian Gilbert, who at the time was working for the widow as well.”

“I saw Brian plenty. Not just once.”

This is information that anyone could know, if they had the patience to talk with a few hookers down in ‘leans. Better not to lie, about something as simple as that—

better not to lie about fucking _anything_ , Jesus Christ, don’t be an idiot—

it’s not like he’s gonna help anyone, with that tough guy bullshit— he’s never managed to save anyone from anything _,_ that’s for fucking sure, especially not his own goddamn neck. It’s fucking stupid to lie at all. He doesn’t even know enough about Brian to lie about. Who knows where he’s mixed up, in all this. For all Pat knows, the kid sold him out. God knows to what end.

“What was the nature of your relationship?”

“Not sure I catch your meaning.”

Why he’s stalling, Pat doesn’t know. It just—what could they want, with the kid.

“Please, Mr. Gill. Answer the question.”

“You said it already. Coworkers.”

If he squints into the darkness, tilts his head just so, Pat’s eyes can adjust enough to see dim, colorless outlines of their faces. Tall guy has a diamond face, bulging eyes. Slicked-back hair. Clean-shaven. If Pat had to guess, he’d reckon he’s got a nice house, but he’d never ever meet you there. You’d be holed up in some skeezy motel, and he’d smile and talk soft and take his fucking time with you, and the tip would be so bad you’d stumble home swearing and spitting and hoping he got fucking bedbugs.

The other guy, Pat doesn’t like his look at _all._

“We have reason to believe you were closer to him than a coworker.”

“It’s the business,” Pat can’t shrug, really, but he tries. “Not exactly a desk job.”

A little quirk of a smile, at that. Oh, _please_ let this guy find him funny.

Tall guy’s gaze at him is only mildly interested, like whatever he’s got to say is boring. But Pat gets the feeling that isn’t quite right. That it actually matters quite a _lot,_ what he says right now. Maybe it matters for Brian. Maybe it matters for Pat. Maybe it matters for something else.

It’d been _years_ since the government disbanded, took their base of operations to the secret states. Sure, they might pop up now and again. But he didn’t know they were _here_. He wonders idly if half the things he heard about the fall of Virginia were true.

“Under what circumstances did he leave?”

“No clue,” Pat hedges a bit. “Except that it was with my boss’s car. ”

“Ah.” A pause. He reckons he’s supposed to keep talking.

“Which I wasn’t keen on explaining to her. So I got outta dodge.”

There’s enough of truth in that. They’re gonna pick at it more. Eventually, this is gonna turn into questions he doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t even _have_ a good answer, for why he left.

Not that they’re gonna ask him that, really. It’s almost certain they don’t care about Pat at all. They want something about Brian. He probably doesn’t even have it, whatever they want.

Next question’s fast. Next topic.

“Did you have sex with him?”

“...for business or pleasure?”

A snort.

“He’s a smartass,” says the other man, folding his arms. He’s short, but his arms are thick. Broad, dark face, mustache, bald. It’s an ugly face, but he might look better if he smiled. He doesn’t look like he smiles much. “We should beat that out of him first. Otherwise this is gonna take forever.”

“If he’s been working for the widow that long he can take a beating,” man one drawls. “And a few other things besides.”

“Don’t be a dipshit. You know he’ll talk straighter if I loosen him up.”

Well, _that’s_ not ideal.

“...hey, look, I—sorry, I just—”

His voice is quiet, breathy, and maybe it doesn’t even get out of him, the words, because they pay him absolutely no mind. The sour-faced man is glaring up at the other, who turns, pondering in silhouette.

“Catch more flies with honey, that’s my motto.” Oh god, are they really—

“Fuckin’ stupid motto. No wonder no one takes you seriously.”

Guy one frowns at that, expression a little overdelicate. “I’m _sure_ I can get more out of him than you, Vandy. But if you want to try, be my guest.”

“— _please_ —”

“I’ll take that bet,” the bad cop says, and the good cop quirks his head.

“How much?”

“Let’s say five thou? Enough to make it interesting.”

Jesus Christ. The widow might have _let_ them kill him for a that much. Pat’s never felt quite so special before, to be worth all that. And the theatrics, besides.

“All right then, Mr. Gill.” The tall man turns back, face still curled up in that way like this is all just a little bit funny. “Sounds like you and I done for the day.”

“Look, I—” Pat swallows. He should try, at least _try_ , to save his stupid ass. “—please—I’ll be straight—I’ll tell you whatever you want—you don’t have to—”

Pat really does get a laugh out of him, then.

“If you want _my_ generosity, Patrick, I would suggest you keep up the jokes for the evening. I’d be delighted to collect on you. You can have ten percent, even.”

The door claps shut, mercilessly.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

The first round’s not bad. Pat can take a good fucking. He’s had the practice for that. It unsettles him a little, the context, but it’s kind of a relief not to have to pretend like he likes it.

When the sour-faced man’s forearm uncoils from his throat and the hand is gone from his hips, his breathing dies down a little. Pat figures it’s worth a try to bargain, again.

“So if I promise to tell you more than him, can we just…?”

The guy snorts. It’s a rather humorless sound. “I don’t take promises from whores.”

Pat presses his tongue to the back of his teeth. Fair enough.

The guy steps up to him, reaches. He has to stand on his toes, to reach Pat’s hands. He ignores the flinch. “Take this. Get yourself down.”

Pat accepts the metal key and struggles, for a minute, figuring how to fit it into the handcuffs. It’s a relief, bringing his arms down. He rubs at his wrists and thinks. The guy’s shorter than him. Definitely older. But also almost certainly stronger. Pat’s limping, and he’s got nowhere to go, and he’s a lover, not a fighter, when it comes right down to it.

“You’re thinking about hitting me,” the guy mutters, turning back to him. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m not a great problem-solver,” Pat admits. “I’m thinkin’ if you’ll be interested in a second round, and if I promise to make it good what it might get me.”

The guy pauses, gives something that approximates a smile. In the stark light, it’s quite eerie. “Hmm. I’m listening. What’s good, _puto_?”  

Pat breathes out every molecule of air he can, as if to purge himself of hope, before he answers.

“Well. I got ten years of practice, so pretty much anything. Just a guess, but you look like a guy who likes a girl to scream. I can sell that you’re the best I ever had. Or I can just cry real pretty, if you say the word. ”

The guy looks like he’s entertaining the idea, at least. Pondering. Pat must be doing _something_ for him, or he wouldn’t have fucked him in the first place. The way he’s looking at Pat now is interested, _hungry_. Pat knows that look, more or less. He can work with that.

“All right.” The sour-faced guy says, steps forward, sticks out a hand. It waits there, expectant.

Pat’s whole body shivers, and the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. _Too fuckin’ easy,_ his gut says. He forces it down. His intuition has been wrong before. Hell, spectacularly so. But what can he—if it _is_ —worst thing that happens is—well—   

he reaches out to take it.

The quick, two-fisted grip on his forearm isn’t exactly a surprise. Pat can even appreciate, with a sort of detached horror, how surgical the maneuver is—

how he jerks Pat’s arm forward with his thumb digging into the heel of Pat’s hand. How he twists the wrist and the arm at the same time, two steps, pulling and twisting and tugging—

how Pat can’t help but stumble, jerk forward—

how the knee stops him from just collapsing to the ground.

Only afterward can Pat really put the pieces together, because the quick startling shock of falling and the coarse blow of a knee in his stomach and the sharp wrenching pain of his wrist are all so fucking _distracting_ —

he doesn’t even really register that he’s doubled over, that the pain in his back is the foul little man driving his elbow in, yanking the arm around, locking it straight behind him—

a sob is the only thing he gets out, before the guy grunts and drives down hard, and when he hears Pat’s shriek, he lets go.

It—

 _fuck,_ this room is big, the echoes of his sobs off the concrete are disconcertingly slow—

it’s excruciating—

Pat’s arm is stiff and limp and aching-sharp and he can’t move it and there’s _no_ way he can—

god, the guy’s touching him again—

hands on his foot, he kicks out and aborts the movement because it makes him _scream_ —

there’s no pain there, though, just something cold and heavy, or maybe if it’s pain it’s just less than the pain up here, the pain that doesn’t change no matter how he shifts or scrabbles pathetically, fingers swiping at his shoulder as if to touch the spot of pain will _help_.

“I’ll pop that back in when I finish dinner,” the guy says airily, standing.

“You fucking— _fascist_ —pig—” Pat gasps

but he’s already gone. He’s gone.

He’s gone, and Pat’s in a cold sweat on the ground, right arm useless, left ankle chained down, and it was bad, the shoulder—it _hurts_ —but not enough—not enough to puke, to pass out, to try and force the joint back himself—he’s not going to do that, any of that. He’s just gonna sit here like a good boy and sweat and hurt until that fuck comes back and decides it’s time to shove it back in.

 _Fuck_. Pat sits up as best he can, draws in his knees, and weeps bloody, snotty tears.

So much for crying pretty. He never was great at that, anyway.

  
  
  
  
  


 

When the guy gets back, he _does_ yank Pat’s shoulder back in. Which is a mercy. Humane, really.

Pat spits in his fucking face anyway.

 

 

 **I can’t decide whether you should live or die** ****  
**oh you’ll prob’ly go to heaven please don’t hang your head and cry** ****  
**no wonder why my heart feels dead inside** ****  
**cold and hard and petrified** **  
** **lock the doors and close the blinds, we’re goin’ for a ride**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blame the scissor sisters they literally wrote every fucking story beat of this mess with their beautiful perfect album
> 
>  
> 
> also +1 to chapter count i think it's gonna require a bit more to wrap this sucker up


	9. both sides now

**get used to this** ****  
**you're going to be alright** ****  
**the world goes on with or without me** ****  
**if I don't ever leave a thing behind** **  
** **i'll still leave you without me**

 

 

Patrick groans at the light. God, why the _light._ Why can’t they just leave him to die in the dark.

The air is still, but it bites at his skin. He’s _wet_ , all over, and though most of it is probably water he knows some of it is blood. The ratio, he couldn’t guess, but it’s probably pretty favorable.

He can remember his name and move all his fingers. So there’s that.

God, the light is _closer_. Shining on his face. Someone’s trying to pick him up again. Maybe carry him over to the basin. Please, please _christ_ no more of that. Please. God. He’ll do anything, no more water. He says as much, to the light. His lungs can’t take it. His mom had a heart condition. If he passes out from that again, they’ll kill him, and they haven’t even asked any fucking questions yet. Please, have mercy.

The light lessens. Pat thanks them, sobbing, which is pitiful, but he’s very grateful.

A voice is hissing in his ear. A hand grips in his hair. God, maybe they’ll just drown him.

“.. _.ian_ , okay? You remember?”

“I don’t—” he coughs out, because he’s lied his whole life, so why not die lying. “—know a fucking thing, okay? He’s just another whore.”

“... _not_ them…ing to help…et you out of here…”

“ _Please,_ ” Pat begs through tears. “I don’t have anything—I barely knew him—I drove him a few times—that’s all.”

“...c’mon…” Hands are pulling him up, strong ones, and he can’t fight them. “...Brian…be seen…quiet…”     

The world is a little clearer, once he’s on his feet, although it’s still mostly pitch-black. The body he’s leaning on doesn’t seem like one of the men from earlier, although it’s stocky and strong and totally hopeless to fight, as well. They’re not hurting him yet, though. Maybe he’s gonna be tied down. Or cleaned up. It could go either way. They’ve got more to do, before they kill him.

“He’s real fucked up,” the voice says. Pat is confused, but his head spins too badly to ask. “I don’t think he can climb.”

Pat doesn’t protest at this, because he doesn’t think so either.

“Shit,” another voice says from above. It’s feminine, which is strange. It’s also strange that it’s from up above, now that Pat thinks of it. He throws his gaze up, desperately. In the stark flashlight brightness, there’s a girl crouching in the ceiling tiles. And she looks…

she looks like _Brian._

“What do we do, Laur?”  

“Holy shit,” Pat gasps, and stumbles into the body next to him. “You look—”

“Yeah, that’s his sister,” says the voice next to him, steadying him. “Please be quiet, okay? We don’t have long to get you out of here.”

Pat’s knees nearly buckle when he realizes. They’re not here to—to—

“Take it easy, dude,” says the guy holding him up. “They really did a number on you. Did you piss them off or something?”

“I did,” Pat groans. “You’re with—is he _here_?”

“Yeah. But he’s the distraction. So you’re stuck with us.” A lopsided grin, half-illuminated. “Think we’re trustworthy?”

“Close enough.” Pat doesn’t have enough breath in him, to stand and talk and also crush this new burgeoning hope out of his chest. “I can—I’ll _try_ to climb. My shoulder’s fucked. Sorry.”  

“No sorry, dude.”

The girl drops a rope. “Tie this to him, Jo. Let me jerry-rig a pulley. I think we can just yank him up. He looks skinny.”

She disappears. The guy puts down his light. In the dark, the hands are touching Pat all over, looping something around his waist, then his feet. He tenses a little, at the ministrations, especially when they move unexpectedly over somewhere tender.

“Sorry,” the guy lets out a breath, guiding the sole of Pat’s foot into a rough loop of rope. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll walk,” Pat nods into the darkness. He’s…pretty sure.

The other foot gets its own loop. “ ‘Kay. Hold on to that—” the hands press a rope into his fingers, “—and we’ll see if the two of us can hoist you, right?”

They can, it seems. Has to be that the guy on bottom is doing most of the pulling, as he’s grunting with effort and the girl looks feather-light. Not quite as weedy as her brother, but equally slender. It’s not too hard, to clutch the rope and lock his knees so he doesn’t go sprawling. He feels each jerk, as his mysterious saviors, hand-over-hand, haul him up.

As soon as Pat can, he grabs the edge of the ceiling, to take off some weight.

“ _Wait,_ ” the girl barks sharply, guides his fingers to a different spot. “You’ll fall through. There. Stay on this side. And come up your tummy. It’s narrow.”

Pat obeys, shoving his upper half into the gap and scrambling in the way she indicated. His fingers scratch at—plywood, seems like—but he finds he needs both hands to yank himself up, even with the suggestion of help from her thin fingers on his forearm.

“You’re all right, you’re all right,” she murmurs. He’s not sure that he is, but he manages at least to stifle his moans as he forces his body where it’s supposed to go. Once he’s in the ceiling, next to girl-Brian, he glances down. She’s holding a flashlight to help with the climb, and Pat sees the face of the guy who was touching him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pat swears in confusion. “It’s _you._  From ‘leans. You sick motherfu—”

“I made an impression,” the bearded face grins. “Sorry it wasn’t a good one.” He climbs up—there’s a pile of junk underneath them, crates, boxes, a little precarious—and the guy scales it quick and then muscles himself up with the rope the rest of the way. The girl gives him a hand and digs her heels, and yanks up him through the ceiling too. He lands half on Patrick in the narrow crawlspace, body dragging along his naked one uncomfortably.

Pat tries to shove himself away, but his head hits something metal and he finds he can’t uncurl all the way, has to stay hunched over, half-sitting, and the guy’s on hands and knees and touching his legs and breathing heavy. The girl’s fitting the ceiling back together. They're all three caugh in this narrow space now, close and stuff, enough light from the scattered beams that he can see wires and insulation and the gleam of metal pipes and the too-close face. It really is him. 

“Uh,” the guy tilts his head, smiles sheepishly. “Well, this is awkward. It was a con. Brian’s my friend. I’m Jonah? And I know that’s probably not the most believable thing you’ve ever heard, but I need you to just go with it.”

Pat can’t find words, or sit up, or even really look away from where their legs are touching. This doesn’t make sense. With a sick pang, he wonders if this might be a hallucination. It has a sort of twisted dream-logic to it.  

“He’s really all right,” the girl touches him on the elbow. He startles, turns. She looks...just  _so much_ like Brian, that he trusts her instinctively. Which is what got him into this fucking mess in the first place. “I’m Laura. Jonah roughed Brian up but not like _that_. They were running a scam.”

“A scam.” Pat grimaces, and tries to understand. “A scam. Running it on me.”

“Well I feel guilty about it _now,_ ” Jonah coughs like a quiet laugh. “I just thought you were a tight-lipped asshole, to be fair. Brian spent like two months trying to get information out of you. I was starting to worry about him. He needed to get out of there.”

It’s only another moment of slack-jawed staring, before Pat decides to buy this. It makes sense, really. Or as much sense as any of this.

“No hard feelings,” Pat sighs, and rubs the tension out of his face with force. “I get it. Now, tell me what I’m supposed to do.”  

“I can see why Brian fuckin’ likes him,” Jonah grins. “Forgives easy and stays on-task.”

Laura isn’t smiling though. She’s tugging at his elbow, whispering urgently. “Patrick. We work for these people. And they’re not good people. They will absolutely kill you when they find out what you know.” Jonah’s hands are unlooping the rope, carefully, dragging it against Pat’s skin. It’s all. A lot to process. The pain’s catching up a little now, the nausea. “So we’re going to get you out of here before they can do that, okay? But you have to help us a little. So that _we_ are safe. What have you told them?”

He closes his eyes and tries to think. The questions seem like a lifetime ago. The tall man had asked almost all the questions. The other guy barely spoke at all. “They got my name. Where I work. That I met Brian. Obvious stuff. That’s it.”

“Jeepers creepers, _thank you_ ,” Laura breathes in relief. “Maybe we’re not screwed. Brian said you were tough”

“I’m not,” Pat grunts. “They just stopped asking questions after that. Got distracted by making me scream.”

“Sucks for you,” Jonah says, starting to move. He’s scrambling forward on his knees, and Pat hurries to follow, as best he can. “But good for us. Was it Van?”

“I think so?” Pat says. “Bald guy. Not a great sense of humor.”

Jonah snorts. “Yeah, that’d be Van. He’s a psycho.”

They pick their way forward a little bit more, Jonah in front, Laura behind. Laura puts a hand on Pat’s good ankle, and after a moment of hesitation, Pat does the same to Jonah, so they don’t need the light so much. His bare knees scrape against the plywood, but splinters are the least of his worries. His body aches with tension. He’s never much liked small spaces, and this whole thing feels precarious, haphazard planks tucked across ceiling beams and rocking slightly as he passes over them. He doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen if he puts his weight in the wrong place.

Jonah’s still murmuring, almost to himself, out in front

“God, they really think you must know something, huh. To bring in Van right away. Why the fuck would they think that. I know he botched the extraction, but...”

“Jonah, I told you, he _really_ fucked up,” Laura whispers. “No offense meant, Patrick. He couldn’t do it. He let Pat see his phone _,_ Jonah. _On purpose._ ”

“Fuckin’ hell Bri's crazy,” Jonah sighs. “I still can’t believe they dragged Patrick all the way out here from ‘Leans, though. Just for that.”

“It’s my fault,” Pat tries to match the breathy, whisper-soft tenor of their voices. “I went looking for him.”

Jonah stills, and turns. “Why.”

“I don’t know,” Pat answers, truthful enough.

Laura lets go of Pat’s heel, as they stop. “Jay, he’s not—”

“We don’t _know_ that, Laura,” Jonah grunts. His voice is a little dangerous. “Patrick. Why’d you go chasing after a man who pulled a fucking gun on you.”

“I—” Although he knows the question’s serious, deadly serious, what comes out is kind of a laugh. “Couldn’t tell you. Maybe I just got tired of running from trouble. Thought I’d save it the time”

A hand grips Pat’s arm, and it makes him wince, the fingertips digging in, as another hand gets on his face. He doesn’t struggle. Whatever he does, he’s at these hands’ mercy, so he tries to stay still and quiet and let them find whatever they’re looking for. A thumb presses into his eyelid and another into his wrist. “Listen to me. Patrick.”

“I’m listening,” Pat breathes.

“You’re going to say something that convinces me that you’re not here to get information on Brian, or to kill us, or to steal tech, or for _whoever._ You’re going to sell it. Or I’m going to hurt you so bad you scream, and then I’m gonna drop you eight feet to the fuckin’ ground, and then they’re going to find you and hurt you until you’re dead. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“ _Jonah_ ,” Laura hisses. “What are you _doing_.”

“So what’ve you got. The truth, or a fucking good lie. I need to make a smart decision, here.”

Pat gives a wheezy laugh. He can’t—he needs to—say something—but it just strikes him _funny_ , for some reason, that after all this he’d end up dead just because he’s too stupid to be believed.

The fingers tighten on his wrist. “Think up your lie _faster_ , asshole.”

“I can’t lie that well,” he finally gets out. “Just kill me, if you wanna be smart. Don’t let them do it. That’d be trouble for you. And _god_ , it’s gonna hurt.”

“ _Patrick_ , he’s not going to—Jonah! what are you—”

The knife against his throat feels clean and clear and generous.

Pat hisses out a breath. He feels—oddly grateful—for the way the edge, the danger pulls the hysteria out of his muddled brain, sharpens his focus. He feels his body. It sits heavy, worn out and torn up, and he reaches into himself and just…he just doesn’t got it.

“Look, I don’t—there’s nothing I can say here, that’s gonna make sense. If you’re gonna—just…don’t tell the kid, please?"

There's a pause. Laura's breathing is the fastest and shallowest of the three of them, he thinks. Funny. That's how this kind of thing is. It's probably harder to watch. He presses on, mouth dry. 

"Just tell him… I dunno, you got me out, and I’m not gonna come looking for him again. That I went back up to Maine. And...that I forgive him.”

“Fuck,” Jonah hisses—

but it doesn’t sound angry, anymore. He drops the little blade. “You’re good. Either you love that boy to death, or at least you’re a ballsy fuckin’ liar." He huffs out a breath. "Romance? What a trash fucking cover story for a hooker.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Laura spits. “Don’t call him that. And why you gotta test people with _knives?_ ”

“Call me whatever you like,” Pat says, pushing back his hair and breathing again. For whatever reason, the enclosed space isn’t bothering him so much now. “And honestly, not my least favorite thing to get tested with.”

Jonah chuckles—Laura sidles over Pat’s knees to whack him for it. “He didn’t need a _test,_ Jonah.” Her whispers are sharp, like her adrenaline and shock is sidling on into being furious. It’s oddly—Pat finds it very _sweet_ , their intimate little squabble, crowded and hissed-quiet and clearly one of a thousand they’ve had before. “Brian told you about him. And what he did. Just to save Brian from getting hurt.”

Pat laughs again, softly. “To be fair, I’m a hooker, so I’ll also do that for money.”

“ _Patrick_.”

Jonah snorts. “Well, good. Money, we can do. Here’s the deal then. You do what we say, we get you out of here, and we’ll get you the cash you need to stay the fuck away from all of us. You’re not going to Maine, though. We’ll send you west. That’s your best shot, to keep from getting caught. All right?”

“Sounds great. I assume I don’t get to say goodbye.”

“Oh you are _cute_ ,” Jonah says warmly. “I already bought it, okay? And no. Now I’m half-convinced he’ll try to elope with you. He’s already been a fucking moron. All this trouble, just to keep you happy. You must be really something in bed.”

“I should hope so,” Pat grunts, as they start moving again. “I’ve had enough practice. If you want a go, I might need a couple minutes, though.”

“God you two are both awful,” Laura grumbles behind them.

  
  
  
  


 

 

It’s an arduous, circuitous path—hands and knees across the planked-over ceiling, down a narrow gap in the insulation of a wall, and through a hatch into what Laura calls _the steam tunnels_.

“Sorry we’ve gotta run you all around,” Laura murmurs, touching his back as he catches his breath. He's hunched over in pain after a particularly long drop. “We need you to bleed all over and look like you’re lost. ‘Cause we didn’t help, you see?”

He nods and signals that he’s okay to keep on. It’s sweltering in here, humid and close, a mechanical rumble everywhere and climbing over pipes and squeezing between narrow crevices. Every now and then Jonah halts them, points at a red dot of a camera, and sidles them around carefully a different way. Laura will tug Pat’s ankle occasionally and whisper  _don’t touch that._  But hell, he isn't as good at monkeying over the pipes she indicates, and ends up hissing with pain at the burns. 

“Let’s get him some clothes,” Laura murmurs. “There’s a locker room below us now. No one’s there. And we’ve gotta kill some time anyway.”

“All right,” Jonah grunts. “Let me get down and back. Laura, take him over to the maintenance room, right-left-right-right, then y’all can at least sit up.”

He peels off, and Laura sidles up past Pat with easy familiarity. Her pace is slower, as she guides him a few lengths more. She drops down suddenly, out of view, and when he draws close he sees that it's through a little open hatch. She flicks on a light.

“There’s a ladder!" His feet find the metal steps, and he lowers himself carefully down into the little room. It's concrete, utilitarian, pipes and metal panels and unfinished rough walls, but big enough to stand in. He tries not to stare at the bare bulb, screwed into the wall, with the little chain hanging down, like you might have in your cellar way back when. He’s gonna blind himself when they’re back in the dark, if he gapes at it like an idiot.

Laura sits, crosses her legs, but Pat stays standing. Presses his back up against the concrete. “This place is big,” he observes and it’s a stupid thing to say but it’s just _weird_ , all these rooms and fucking lightbulbs with switches and shit he hasn’t seen in years.

“It’s an old military base,” she nods. “This part’s pretty useless, honestly. No one’ll come this way, until they figure out you’re missing.”

“How long—” he swallows down a rustle of nerves. “How long before that?”

She smiles. “Brian’s drawing out the cavalry, so with any luck, hours. We only need—” she glances at her watch. “Forty-one minutes, though. As long as he manages that, we’re golden.”

It’s hard to imagine the kid dealing with _cavalry_ , whatever that means. The crawling and climbing and all that’s been—well, not easy—but the idea of sitting here for a half hour and just waiting—it sets his teeth on edge. “What happens in forty-one minutes?”

“Lights out,” she nods sharply. “ ‘Cause there’s a flare coming. Systems go offline for 36 hours. Plenty of time for us to make the magic happen.”

Pat lets out a long breath. He can feel every heartbeat, grating against his ribcage with useless hope. He’d already given himself up for a goner… but now that he’s found out he might live through this, he’s gotten kinda attached to the idea.

Plus, Brian’s sister looks just like him. He’d hate to fuck this up for her. For them.

Jonah drops down the ladder, easily, bag in hand, and tosses it in Pat’s direction. He jerks a little, in surprise, but Jonah doesn't comment.

“Here’s some clothes. And some water. Figured you fuckin’ need it.”

“Thanks,” is all he can choke out, uncurling the startled muscles in his chest. He yanks open the bag—white underclothes, thick jumpsuit in industrial blue-grey.

“Sorry for the shitty fashion,” Jonah smiles a little as Pat shoves the wifebeater over his head. “I coulda grabbed something over in costumes, if I’d thought of it.

“It’s good,” Pat says, and dresses, and tears into the canteen with desperate gusto.

Laura’s still cross-legged, when he finishes draining it, but she’s got something on her lap, now. She’s counting to herself.

“What day’s it, Jonah?” Laura asks. “Just to check.”

“Forty-seven eighty-six. We’re at 0800 hours.”

“Thought so.” Her eyes flick to Pat, briefly. “You’re a lucky man, Patrick. We’re due for a flare tomorrow, and another two days after that. They’ll have a hell of a time chasing you.”

He nods, and then pauses, halfway. Maybe she won’t mind too much, if he asks… “So you—they—know what’s causing them? The flares?”

She shakes her head. “No. Just when. Here, I can give you the next few.” She produces a piece of paper and a pen from her pocket, then scrawls him out a little note.

4787   4789 4793   4799 4801 4813   4817 4831 4861  
4871   4877 4889   4903 4909 4919   4931 4933 4937

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this information, really, but he tucks it in his newfound pocket. Maybe, if he gets out of here, he’ll win some barroom bets. He leans heavily on the wall. The pain’s starting to catch up, a bit, now that panic is letting him go. Now that he’s thinking about how he’s gotta get moving, get out west, all alone, with none of his kit and no idea of the geography. It's gonna be—well—hard to say.

“You can catch a nap, if you want,” Jonah says, sliding his eyes over. He’s _observant_ , this cat. “Laur says we’ve gotta wait a bit.”

“Not tired,” he says, as he surfaces from his thoughts. “Just—uh. A little worn out.” He lets himself slide down to sit—it’s a lot more comfortable, now that he’s dressed—and rests his arms on his knees. Breathes. Laura’s absorbed with her little screen, typing away. Pat wonders if he remembers how to type. Probably not. It’s been a lifetime.

Jonah sits close, but not looking at him. It’s a relief, to be spared his dark-eyed gaze.

“So how’d you and Brian meet,” Pat asks, even though he doesn’t figure he’ll get an honest answer.

“Music,” Jonah says easily, and laughs. “Well, kind of. I guess you could call it a band. Of thieves.”

Laura coughs, but doesn’t look up. “That’s _my_ pun, Jo. Keep your mitts off it.”

Jonah chuckles. “Well. You get the gist.”

Pat’s brain stutters a little bit, as if protesting that it’s not quite up to wordplay. “Huh?”

“Oh, before DC got real crazy. Me and Brian had a pretty good hustle. Rich people wanted music. We wanted to see where everything valuable was in those goddamn mansions. You know.”

“A _hem_.”

“Laura did all the hard work,” Jonah concedes immediately. “Planning. Acquisitions. We just did recon. God, the shit these people were keeping their hands on, Patrick. Even _years_ after. It was sick. People still had _personal chefs_. You wouldn’t believe the shit they were eating, either.”

“I’d believe it.” Pat’s been plenty of places where the people are richer than sin. He’s had food eaten off his body that’s worth more than the widow's car—and as she reminded him, time and time again, that car was worth a lot more than him having unbroken legs.

Jonah knocks their knees together, at Pat’s long silence.

“If you—” Pat draws a breath, flounders for a question. “Then how’d you end up working for the feds.”

That garners a sigh, and it sounds a little odd. “Sometimes you take the least worst option, ey?”

“Cheers,” Pat doesn’t push on that one anymore. He knows that story. And he’s been at the mews long enough to know: you don’t ask people why they hit rock bottom, and when, and how. It’s just rude. “So why’re you helping _me_ , then.”

“Two reasons,” Jonah gesticulates. “First one is our own self-interest.”

“Oh fuck I like to hear that,” Pat mutters, sincerely.

“Ha! Yeah, that’s your insurance, right there.” The bearded face, turned toward him, is smiling, but with a little strain. “Look we don’t know what you know, except that Bri has a phone, but that’s fucking awful enough. You spill that and he’ll—well, he’ll be fucked, and we’d like to avoid that happening, aight?”

“Got it. Reason two?”

“Bri begged us.” Jonah says, simply. “To get you out.” He pauses. “I might have done this differently, if he hadn’t.”

Pat doesn’t inquire what that difference would have been. He figures he knows.

Laura cuts in, though. “He wouldn’t’ve killed you, Pat. But he’s—” she pauses. “Brian cares about you a lot. We could have just gotten you out and made it look like—well. There’s cells you could be an agent for. Terrorists. Rival governments. China. It’d be easy to just make it look like an extraction. We’re not involved, you get free, nice and easy."

“But it’s dangerous for you,” Jonah rests a fingertip on Pat’s knee, emphasizing the point. “Because if they’d do that for you, then you’re valuable. They’d spend a lot of time, trying to figure out who you work for, and why. And of course they wouldn’t find anything. So they’d just have to go after you. You’d be hunted for the rest of your life.”

Pat sighs. “I mean, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Oh no, hot stuff,” Jonah grins, and taps the finger. “You’re getting the real _family_ treatment. Brian made us cook up a whole cockamamie—well. It _should_ work. It’s a little looser. But here’s the story, Pat: you’re a smart cookie, and you picked the lock on your ankle and you climbed up in the ceiling and scrambled your way out on your own. It just so _happened_ that there was a pretty big distraction goin’ on over in a different quadrant, at the time. And it just so happened that the next day was a flare. And it just so happened that the flare wiped some key surveillance tapes. They do that, sometimes.”

“Damn right they do that sometimes,” Laura mutters. “And they find it’s a goddamn pain in the ass every fucking time.”

Pat swallows. “Sounds complicated. And lucky.”

“Oh, they’re not gonna buy it a _hundred_ percent, I don’t figure, but it’ll give you enough wiggle room. When they can’t figure out who you work for. When you’re not a spy and you’re not a foreign op and they can’t think of a reason why you’d be buried in ‘Leans for ten years anyway. They’ll prolly keep a file on you, but I can’t figure you’d be priority one. They’ll have to assume you aren’t _that_ important, if you never come up again. You’ll just be that lucky little shit that got away.”  

“Best lie’s the damn truth,” Pat laughs, and taps the back of his head on the concrete.

  


 

 

 

They sit in companionable silence for—whatever it is, twenty-three and a half minutes or whatever the fuck—and then everything goes dark.

“Put this on,” Jonah shoves something at Pat. A headlamp, he feels the band and hard plastic. “Grabbed ‘em downstairs. We can light ‘em up another few hours before it’ll zap em.”

They put on the lights, three little spots of greenish-gold in the briny hot pitch-blackness, and try not to stare right at each other so they don’t sear in each others’ eyes.

“Let’s get thee gone, then, Romeo,” Jonah gestures grandly, and starts to climb.

 

 

 ****  
**if it takes another life** ****  
**I’ll wait for you on the other side** ****  
**everything that comes to me** ****  
**as good belongs to you** ****  
**I’ll count our blessings as** ****  
**I wait for you on the other side** **  
** **good luck and I will see you through**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cleaned up some commas and some word choice to make it read smoother, after posting. sorry if i borked your fave lines, it's for the greater good.


	10. four five seconds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again endlessly to beta **spacegirl** for reading this behemoth over carefully and kindly.

 

**there's an urgency i'm feeling for the first time (it’s all mine)** ****  
**do we dream about each other at the same time? (all right)** ****  
**this might be the only way to talk to you (that’s right)** **  
** **it’s your ears with the sound that i’ll walk into (your mind)**

 

There’s only three tight spots, on their way out. Close enough, for government work.

  


The first one’s Patrick’s own fault. He gets careless. He’s just not looking where he puts his feet, and he’s stepping too tired and heavy, and he goes down in a sudden heap and barely manages to bite off his yelp.

“It’s fine,” he mutters to Laura, when she’s making a fuss over the sole of his foot.

“Stay still,” she scolds, extracting the shard. “ _Shit_. It’s deep.”

“I can walk fine—you don’t need to—”  

“There’s no way he’s had a Tdap, Jay,” she talks over his head. “We gotta detour to the clinic.”

Jonah groans. “Fuck, _really_ , Laura? That’s doubling back almost halfway.”

“I’ll go,” she’s already scrambling up from her knees, brushing herself off. “I’ll be quick.”

Pat grabs at her sleeve. “Really, don’t bother—it’s nothing—”  

“We gotta,” she says firmly, pulling away. “It’s a puncture wound, and you’re just gonna spend the next hour grinding more dirt into it ‘cause _someone_ didn’t get you shoes.”

Pat finds himself shrinking from her glare, even though it’s not for him. He’d protest more, but her tone brooks no argument, and she’s already slipping away with fast sure-footed steps. She disappears into a gap between pipes that by all rights should fit nothing larger than a cat.

Jonah gazes after her too, but he doesn’t look particularly put-out, really. He just shrugs, raises a rueful hand. “Well, she’s the brains. She’s not gonna save you and then let you die of tetanus.”

“ ‘san awful lot of trouble,” Pat murmurs.

“She doesn’t do things halfway,” Jonah gives a little smile. “Guess while she does that I’ll go find some shoes. You stay here, hoss. We’ll be back in thirty.”

“All right.” Pat hesitates.

He wants to ask—

but some curl of his gut, superstition maybe, or just common courtesy, holds him back—

no, no, he’s _gotta_ ask. Even if asking makes it so.

He steels his gaze. “And if you’re not?”

“We will be,” Jonah steps up, squeezes his shoulder. He’s got a wide, friendly, trustworthy face, up close. Confident. Smart. Doesn’t seem like the sort of guy who’d take stupid risks. Doesn’t seem like he’d run off and leave you in the lurch.

Patrick has a professional appreciation for how good Jonah is at _seeming-like_ one thing or another.

Maybe Jonah reads the doubt on Pat’s face. Or maybe he’s just smart enough to expect it. He lets go, pulls off his watch, straps it to Pat’s wrist. The hands are glowing a faint greenish-blue.

Jonah smiles, though it’s not particularly mirthful. “Just in case some bullshit makes a liar out of me. Give us an hour. Two at most. Then keep going. Follow the red pipes until you find a hatch out. They always lead up eventually.”  

“Thanks,” Pat finds himself smiling back, not happy, but relieved. “Good luck.”

“Don’t need it,” Jonah gives a jaunty wave as he trots away.

  
  


They do get back. Doesn’t even take an hour, either. Laura cleans up Pat’s foot, and sticks him with a needle, and whacks Jonah in the chest for leaving him alone. Then they’re off again.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The second problem can’t be fixed with a pinprick.

They’re working their way through open hallways—dark, silent, of course—headlamps off and feet feeling out the darkness with every slow step. They’re in tight formation. Laura’s up front, to handle doors and locks. Jonah’s behind, in case of disaster. Patrick’s in the middle, because he’s goddamn useless, except to keep his sweaty left palm in Laura’s dry one, to let Jonah’s calloused fingers grip around his other hand, and to relay the little squeezes between them that mean _pause_ or _move faster_ or _we can’t go this way._

Laura shakes herself loose, periodically, flicks on her tiny penlight for just a half-second, a ridiculously brief splash of blue-white beam. It barely gives Pat an inkling of the space they’re in, the vast and circuitous maze of halls and doors and white tile floors and concrete berms. She must know this place like the back of her goddamn hand.

Pat would _never_ have gotten out of here alone. Hell, he barely stands a chance now, even sandwiched between these two, fingers fitted into theirs like a lost child.

They pause at a door for a long moment—

it’s not long _really_ , but Laura has to turn her headlamp on to work her magic, and everything seems like an eternity when there’s light bouncing down the menacing hallways

—maybe Jonah feels the length, too, because he taps her shoulder impatiently.

“ _Jutht gimme a thec_ ,” she breathes in a dropped whisper that’s entirely devoid of sibilants and yet somehow still sounds annoyed.

Jonah rocks back on his heels, looks up at Pat tensely. He grabs Pat’s forearm, pulls him until their heads are nearly touching, whispers.

“Do you hear that?”

Pat pauses. He doesn’t hear anything, except the soft clicks and taps of Laura shoving her little pieces of machinery into the disassembled keypad.

And then she pauses, and a few of the _taps_ don’t stop.

It’s soft and slow but it _might_ just be footfalls, echoing a long way off.

He nods, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“ _Not a problem yet,_ ” Jonah breathes into Pat’s hair, grip on his forearm bruising tight. “ _But get ready to run. Quick and quiet, eh? Back the way we came._ ”  

Pat clenches his jaw, because running, well. That’s a bit of a trick. He thinks he can manage it. He’ll have to.

But Laura—

bless her fucking brilliant fingers—

comes through. She pulls open the door with _aching_ slowness and the three of them barrel in and lock it behind them and flick on their headlamps and let out a sigh of relief in three-part whispered harmony. It’s not a very interesting room, this one. An office, or a storage room—cabinets and boxes and a desk.

The two peel off to handle their business, which Pat takes as his cue to keep out of the way. Laura’s shoving something into the computer—it’s off, but not for long. Jonah’s easing out a high drawer from the file cabinet, hooking his elbow around the edge so his fingers can sweep the bottom.

It’s jittery-tense, the silence, the papery _swish_ of Jonah’s fingers and the plasticky _tap_ of Laura’s, but behind that there’s nothing else Pat can hear, and at least that’s something.   

Jonah withdraws his hand after a minute or so, and waits for Laura to finish. She’s staring at the screen, nose an inch away, and then typing again.

“There,” she says, a modicum louder than before, just a regular old whisper, complete with a fist pump and a grin. “We’re good. I opened what we need. It’ll wipe when the flare comes up.”

“Where was Brian gonna drop the keys, Ell,” Jonah says.

It’s calm, his voice. Pat doesn’t love the sound. It’s flat, intentional, like a parent who’s just seen a car crash but doesn’t want to point it out to their kid in the back seat.

“That drawer—top one, 90s, Q-Z—why? D’you need…?” she trails off, because she looks up and her headlamp illuminates Jonah’s expression. Grim. He looks grim.  

He turns, yanks out the drawer with a sharp jerk. It comes out with a little groaning shriek of metal, and Jonah grunts as he rests it on the floor.

“That’s what I thought. Well, y’all double-check, I guess.”

They do, pulling out the files carefully and shining in a light, but there’s nothing in the bottom of the drawer but dust and a few curled ridges of old carbon-copy paper.

Pat sees Laura’s fingers trembling when they cross the beam of light.

“Jonah, he—he didn’t—”

“Let’s check all the others.” Jonah grabs her wrist. “No sense panicking until we have to.”

“He’d never get the drawer wrong, Jay,” Laura ekes out, but he pulls her up to do it anyway.

They waste some time, pulling out more drawers. There’s nothing, of course.

“Might’ve just not been able to snag ‘em,” Jonah says blandly, pushing the last of the cabinets back together. “He knows we could do without. Just a timesaver, really.”

“He’d’ve left a note, Jonah, you _know_ he would have,” Laura sounds three sheets to distraught, and her voice is a step above a whisper, now. “Something happened—god, we shouldn’t have let him—he was doing it all _alone_ , Jay—something _happened_ — ”

“Stop.” The voice is still calm, but Jonah’s got her shoulders now, he’s looking down into her face. “Ell. Don’t go there on me. Something happened, and he rolled with it. You know how he is. Changes plans. No way he’d hesitate to cut this bit, if it wasn’t in the cards. So we just keep going, right?”

The careful optimism in his voice corkscrews into Pat’s stomach. He knows that tone. He’s _used_ that tone. When he’s got nothing, but he needs somebody to move their damn legs.

“But what if he’s in trouble, Jay,” Laura whispers, hands curling around his wrists.

“How many times have you said that.” Jonah’s voice is stern. “And it turned out he was just fuckin’ around and lost track of time. Bri can’t keep on a schedule to save his neck.” His eyes flick up to Patrick briefly. “He’s always getting too caught up with something or other.”

It doesn’t offend Pat, the insinuation.

“We can’t just _ignore_ it,” Laura looks pained and a little lost.

“If they caught him, they wouldn’t kill him,” Jonah says point-blank, straight into her face. “So he’s definitely alive, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is tiny, crumpled.

“And since he’s alive, he’s gonna lose his shit if we don’t get Patrick out, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So we better do that before we find him, yeah?”

This exchange is so… it feels wrong, for Pat to be here, to be watching it, listening, witnessing, aching with fear and swirling hopelessness and also lurching with a selfish warmth that stabs through his belly like a knife—  

_the real family treatment_ —

_Jonah, I told you, he_ _really_ _fucked up—_

_you must really be something in bed—_

_he’s gonna lose his shit—_

oh Mary mother of _God_ he hopes he doesn’t live to lose the kid again. Not now, not _now,_ now that he knows that saving his worthless skin is something Brian cared about. Cares about.  

Whatever the kid lied about, it wasn’t that.

Laura wipes her eyes on her sleeve. She’s pulling herself together, shakily. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. He’s always… always doing this. Um.”

She sniffs, and looks up at Pat, as if she’d forgotten he was there. He turns away, embarrassed to look at her, as if she could dig within him with her gaze and rip away the layers of terror and grief and pain and honest fear and see the tiny foul greedy part of him that’s still reveling like a pig in slop that her brother would… that he’d _risk_ all this… just for…

“Um. We’re good, on the—the computer.” Laura’s voice is steadied, now, as far as it goes. “So now we just have to—it’s gonna be—I’ve got some… some work to do on the doors. So let’s go.”

Jonah pats her on the back and says _good man._ Pat just nods, and follows.  

  
  
  
  
  


They’re working their way through hopeless, close-hammered darkness when it happens.

No headlamps here—the wall they’re crawling through’s too flimsy, only a paper-thin covering in places, _the last thing we need is some G-man spotting a glow behind the fucking plaster,_ says Jonah.

Every now and again, they pause for a moment, and Jonah—in front, now—pulls open something, a vent or an electrical outlet, things like that—and peers into a room. Pat holds his breath, and Laura does too. Then Jonah presses it shut and moves on. What he’s searching for, with all this seemingly unnecessary looking, Pat can’t guess—

well, he _can_ guess, actually—

but he doesn’t bother guessing until they find it.

Jonah pulls open another vent, and whatever he sees presses a little breath out of him. It’s soft. Like the last rush of air coming out of a balloon. The opposite of a gasp. It’d be impossible to hear, if Pat and Laura weren’t totally and perfectly silent.

The cold tight feeling in Pat’s chest tells him not to ask, but he taps at Jonah’s ankle twice anyway. Questioning.

“No danger,” Jonah breathes to Pat, in a strained whisper that sounds like it’s missing some key harmonics. “No one in there. Laura, have we been this way.”

“Not yet,” she hisses back. “Why?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he bites off into the dark, loud enough that Pat startles at the sound. There’s three heavy, shuddering breaths before he asks again. “And Brian was supposed to come through here.”

“Yeah,” she says, and Pat thinks her voice would be very quiet, even if it weren’t already a whisper. “What…tell me, Jo.”

“There’s blood,” he says shortly. “A lot. Let’s check it out.”

It’s a tight fit for Jonah, the vent, but he muscles his way through anyway, turning his hips and pulling with the effort, clothes catching on the edges. Pat lets Laura go next.

Her breath is wispy-weak, but her body is confident as she climbs over him with desperate speed, wriggles her shoulders expertly through the little rectangular gap.

Pat follows, even though—

well, he’s a realist at heart, he likes to face things—

always been like that—

but as the blood pounds in his ears and blots out the sound of his own little groan of pain—

(he catches his shoulder jamming it through the opening, and he sees stars)

he wonders, as his vision clears, if he really wants to see.

  
  
  
  


There’s no body, at least.

Blood, though. A fair bit. Not a _body’s_ worth of blood—

but enough that if you were missing it you’d probably notice.

Pat sits just in front of the grate, watching the two investigate, waits cross-legged for the verdict like the hangman’s noose. They’re remarkably calm, considering. Muttering at each other in dropped tones, little blips of information. Sketching out a picture.

“Cold and not dry, Ell. Maybe a few hours.”

“These bits—you think—a fight?”

“Something. Lots of moving around. Is there blood on the door? The doorknob?”

“No. But no… no streaks like dragging, either…”

“No. Everyone walked away. Or got carried.”

“ _God._ You think they got him?”

“Maybe.”

“Or he got them, Jay? We haven’t seen any security, _anything_ , not a single patrol—”

“Yeah, but don’t you think he would have cleaned up?”

“...”

“Let’s really give it a once-over. See if we can find anything.”

They search the room, stepping over the splashes of blood that are dark black and ugly in the stark blue light. Jonah has that grim, fierce expression. Laura’s more soft, shaking like she’s just been doused in icewater, but her voice is calm as she pushes her thoughts together.

Watching them is hard, but _not_ watching them is harder, leaves too much space for him to think—

_dear sweet saint rita patron of the seeming impossible—_

—to _pray_ , when was the last time he prayed, really—

he moves to help instead. It’s useless, to look, but he’s not exactly averse to useless looking. Searching for some sign—

“This pipe’s busted,” Jonah reports, his voice neither light nor heavy. “I dunno why.”

“Broke off in a fight?” Laura offers, as she and Pat look up, glance overhead, where Jonah’s looking.

“Too high to be by accident.”

“Broken before?”

“No. It’s leaking. Can’t have been broken long.”

Jonah’s frowning up at this, in confusion. Pat traces the pool of water from the pipe with his eyes. It’s mixing with the blood, diluting it—that’s good. Maybe… maybe there’s less of it, than they thought. You can always hope.

The bloody-water puddle streaks out in several places, droplets, dashes, smears on a baseboard and on a wall. Pat follows a few with his headlamp, but it’s impossible—how could you tell, if they were flung by a careless wave of a hand? or a slim leg kicking in a desperate struggle? or a little broken body, slumping to the floor? He can’t _tell_ , he can’t tell, there’s no story to this, except that whatever happened is probably just about the worst thing that’s—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Pat hisses, sharper than he means to.

“What,” Jonah says, and his voice is like the heavy hot air before a thunderstorm.

“There’s blood here. On the—where we came in. Dyou think it’s mine?”

Jonah’s there in a flash, and Laura too, and they’re pushing him aside hard, shoving in, examining the edges of the hole they’d crawled through.

“I don’t think so,” Jonah eyes Pat carefully. “It’s dry. And you’re not bleeding that much, now.”

“Oh, _Jay_ , it’s—it’s under the grate—he got out, you think?” Her voice is faint, grief-stricken, hopeful, a little flicker of something like she’s praying they’ll fan it into a flame for her.

Jonah reaches out, grabs her hand. “That’s the spirit, Ell. We’ll find him, right? Stick your head back in there, see if you see—”

She’s already going, shoving herself back in the wall, and only moments later they hear a teary squeak.

“Oh it’s _here,_ it’s here—Pat—Jo—there’s more, a little in here—he wiggled his way—”

“Please please _please_ be quiet,” Jonah begs her, and motions to Pat to follow her back into the wall. “Fat lot of good it’ll do if he gets free and we don’t.”

They shove themselves after her. Pat feels like his heart is in stasis, like his whole body’s on ice. He doesn’t know what to feel, other than the vague sweat-soaked shivering that means it’s been too long since he’s eaten, the creeping headache of staying awake and alert too long. He’s already moved through his second wind—his third wind, even—he’s got only a little left in the tank, to move without screaming, to stay upright, to keep a straight face, to stop his heart against despair.

But he’s got a _little_ juice left. When you’re going through hell, keep going.

The drops trail off quickly, which Jonah points out is actually good, ‘cause maybe the kid’s not bleeding so hard as all that. Hard to tell, if he was walking or stumbling or crawling on his hands and knees, but he was _moving_ , sure enough, for at least a few dozen feet.

“That’s it for the trail,” Jonah says shortly. “Let’s get Pat topside and then we’ll come back and start here.”

“ _No_ ,” Laura wails, breathy. “We can’t waste—we’ve gotta _find_ him, Jo—”

“I already told you,” Jonah says, voice a little ragged. “He’ll kill us if we don’t get Pat out first. We could be scrabbling around looking for hours. We gotta stick to the plan.”

“Please,” Pat speaks up, finally. “I’m not—I don’t have to tag along, if you don’t want help. But please, go find him. I’ll get out on my own, or I’ll wait, or—just don’t—”

He feels a little weak in the knees, at the idea that the kid might be somewhere bleeding to death at this very moment. Surely, surely that must be the most important thing in this whole blasted wrung-out world.

“No,” Jonah bites, shortly. “We’re close. It’ll only take an hour. Two at most. We’ll get you out, and then after you skedaddle we’ll deal with finding him.”

Laura’s crying, but she’s stopped complaining. She’s nodding miserably. She’s gonna go along with this plan. She also thinks it’s the best idea. To help Pat first. Then to find her brother.

They know Brian better, that’s for sure. They know what he’d want.

They’ve been...so fucking generous. Worked so hard, to save Pat’s stupid hide. To come up with a plan. To keep him alive. To give him a solid chance.

Well, fucking _hell_.

Pat dashes wetness off his face fiercely. He’s never been much of a fucking _planner_. He never planned where he was gonna go. He never planned to see a friendly face again, truth be told. He really never expected, once they strung him up naked and started asking questions, that he’d make it out of here alive.

So really, as far as he’s concerned—it’s all gravy. Might as well.

“I’m not going until we find him.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Jonah scoffs, angry, a little broken.

Fair enough. It’s stupid, but—

well, the kid was fucking stupid, to ever get attached to a washed-up hooker he was pumping for information. Pat was fucking stupid, to trust a baby-faced newbie with a voice like a siren. It’s all been stupid, and just about half of it’s worked out all right. So why not flip a coin.

“I’ll help look. I’m not going.”

“Hah! You’re no fucking _help,_ ” he bites out, acrid. It slides off. Pat knows what it’s like, when you’re so sick with fear and worry and plans shattered that all you’ve got left to drag you along is viciousness.

“Fine, but I’m not—if you think I’m just gonna walk off, without knowing—haven’t you got the picture by now? I’m a fucking _fool_ , Jonah.”

“You’re acting like one,” Jonah sucks in a wet breath, slow. Mastering his anger. He’s got Laura in his arms, crying openly. “Stop being a dipshit, Patrick. He risked his ass to save _you_. You’re just gonna throw that back in his face?”

It stabs a little, that. “Look, I dunno why he’d risk a fucking thing. Why he thinks… why _you_ think… why _any_ of you think my life’s worth a damn. I know _exactly_ how much it’s worth.”

“ _Shut_ the fuck _UP._ ” He’s shook up. Angry enough that he’s not keeping his voice down. If Laura weren’t between them, Pat thinks he’d probably be up in his face. Pushing him, maybe. “Brian thought you were worth something, you fucker—”

“—and since he’s just about the only one why the _fuck_ would I—” Pat’s voice falters, because he’s not sure how he wants that sentence to end. He just know that leaving now—

whether he gets away or not—

not knowing if the kid’s alive—

it’d crack the last of the delicate glass instruments inside him that keep his body moving. It’d leak mercury into his blood. It’d be, all in all, the worser way to go.

“You’re _useless_ ,” Jonah barks, savagely. “You’re already half-dead—are you lookin’ to finish the job? ‘Cause I wish you’d told us this fucking morning and saved us all a lot of fucking time.”

Pat raises a hand, shrugs. “Sorry,” he says without meaning it.

They’re at a standstill, glowering at each other.

Laura claws her way up, to her feet, wipes her tearstained face. “Fucking stop it, Jonah.”

“ _Me?_ ”

“Jo, we have to let him come. He needs to—imagine if—” she shudders and presses a hand to his arm. “—imagine if we weren’t together, Jo. What would we have?”    

“Fuck all,” Pat spits, bitterly. “And you’d do fucking anything to get it back.”

There’s a pause, where Jonah’s glare shifts to Laura. He can’t hold it there long, though. They just stare at each other, and stare and stare, and she’s not crying anymore, and he almost is, until he drops his gaze.  

“Sappy,” Jonah gets out, and it’s supposed to be sharp, but it’s not. It’s just not.

“Yeah,” Pat admits. “Sappy and stubborn. Widow always said it’d get me killed. Probably by her.”

Jonah voices a laugh, despite himself. “Look, Pat—I _get_ it, I do. You fell for each other, you fucking idiots, but you’re gonna—it’s gonna—” he hitches a breath, hard, that interrupts his speech. Remembers himself. Lowers his voice a healthy chunk of decibels. “I just can’t promise you that we’ll be able to get you out. This plan’ll work. Once we start wandering off…” he waves a hand, “...who knows. Brian’d tell you to just fucking look out for yourself. He’d beg you, even, I think.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time he told me not to follow him.”

Jonah laughs again, hollowly. “Yeah, and it went so well for you the first time. All right, then, Romeo. Let’s go find him.”   

  
  
  
  


They split up to search, in case speed’s of the essence. Pat’s in charge of tracing through the steam tunnels— _simple and safe,_ Jonah says, _but you’re gonna get lost, so here—_ and hands him a glowstick he’s snapped in half, so Pat can smear little phosphorescent dabs to mark where he’s been. Laura and Jonah confer about their own search paths, but Pat doesn’t know where the mess hall is or the boiler room or where they keep the temp agents or the gear lockers, so he doesn’t bother listening too hard.

“Where should we meet up,” Laura whispers, hushed. “Not here, right? Too close to the scene.”

“We could go back to the maintenance room,” Jonah says dubiously. “That might be easiest to find. But I don’t love going back. ‘Specially there, if it turns out they’re looking for us.”

“I don’t like it either, Jay.”

“We could just meet on the surface,” Jonah suggests cautiously. “If Pat thinks he can find the door.”

“Just tell me where to go,” Pat nods, more confident than he feels.

Jonah traces him out a rough series of steps in words—landmarks, turns, steps. It’s complicated, but not so bad. He repeats it back with only a couple fuckups, and tries to fix it in his mind.

“I got it,” Pat says, finally. “As well as I’m gonna get it, anyway.”

“Leave a trail,” Jonah says dubiously. “And if we have to find you, we’ll work it out.”

“How long do we wait topside?” Laura speaks up.

“I reckon we meet up in two hours,” Jonah shrugs, hands in his pockets. “And then just wait as long as you can stand.” His eyes flick to Pat. “You’d best get gone before it’s light, if we don’t show.”

“Okay,” Laura cuts him off, before he can finish the thought. “Two hours. But how can you—without your watch—”

Pat strips it off his wrist immediately. “Here. Have it back.”

“You need the time too,” Jonah frowns.

“Nah. Trust me, I know exactly what two hours feels like.”

Jonah raises his eyebrow at the bluster, but takes it. “Well then. Seeya soon. Or nice meeting you.”

Laura’s a little more effusive, and kisses him hard on both cheeks. “Good luck, Pat. Thank you.”

  
  
  
  


Crawling alone through the tunnels is—

well. Somehow, even after all these years, the utter, perfect blackness gets under Pat’s skin.

Maybe it’s not a surprise. Dark out in the open is different. When there’s a new moon and no aurora, and only a few stray points of stars and distant candles in bare windows. Or even better, the flat smoke-dark out beyond a bonfire, like there’s absolutely nothing in the world that the flames aren’t touching. Pat even has some affection for the wine-dark color of behind your eyes when you finally fall weary into bed, just before dawn.

This dark is different, though. Even with the faint sickly gleam of the phosphorescent trail. It’s just…it’s different when you’re boxed in. Pat doesn’t like it.

Hates it, actually. He’s not claustrophobic, not anymore, that’s been beaten out of him along with a million other fears that just don’t fit the spaces left inside him.

But it still _gets_ to him, a bit. Being enclosed in wood or brick or metal or concrete, silent as the tomb, only the occasional sound of scrambling that you _pray_ is just your own, no spark of flame anywhere. The air is warm and close and black-colored, like ink poured in to fill up all the space, choking out any chance of vision. It feels like hiding in a closet, holding your breath. It feels like being shut up in the trunk of a car. It feels like the cellar.

He shakes his head. It helps to have something to do. As he wanders along, he feels for paths off the main, takes each one painstakingly, finds the door or the hatch or the ladder where it goes. Some of them go nowhere, just pipes that run straight into the walls. Others trail off for what seems like ages, until Pat’s half-certain he’s looped around entirely but can’t really be sure. But most of them end somewhere he can climb up, stop, listen, push something open just the barest sliver in terrified silence. If it’s quiet and dark, he pushes the hatch up more, sticks his head out into the blackness and silence, listens hard, and then dares to flick on his lamp and look around.

Every place he passes is empty, devoid of life, bloodless. And he descends back down.

  
  
  
  
  


Of course, Pat gets lost.

His thumping heart is just balancing too much, too many thoughts—beating out its fear for Brian and for himself, beating back the darkness, the pain, beating into submission the weary-wailing voice that tells him there’s no point, there’s no time, there’s no way, just lie down here and give up.

_Just stop and close your eyes for a second,_ it always whispers. _Nothing bad’ll happen. And even if it does, maybe that’d be better anyway._

He’s never let that voice win before, and he won’t let it today, but it’s hard to remember directions when it’s whining, grinding its hopelessness into the base of his skull.

It’s been—maybe an hour and a half, he reckons. Enough time that he’d probably best try to get unlost. He flicks on his light, scans for red pipes, finds one that looks promising to follow. Goes along it until he finds some steps that lead down, sighs, and doubles back to go the other way.

Most hatches open into vast dark enclosures—

one, terrifyingly, into somewhere light—

there’s footsteps, in there, which is the most awful thing he’s ever heard, but also the most potentially useful, so he forced himself to stop and listen at the sliver and pray he was quiet and subtle enough—

the snatches of conversation are mundane, though, devoid of screams or cries of pain or anything about Brian or himself, so eventually he decides he has to move on—

and finally, he opens a hatch and peeks up and sees dark sky pricked with light.

He hisses out a breath, nervously. Well, here it goes.

Climbing up is easy enough, on the metal rungs, and he slides up into the dark evening on his belly. He’s right next to a building—it’s dark inside, thank _god_ —and though the hatch he came up is metal on the inside, on the outside it’s woody-rustic and looks something like a storm cellar. He closes it, carefully, and gazes around.

The moonlight’s dim, but his eyes are used to it. He pauses a long time, looking for anything moving, looking for anything that’s looking for him. _They’ll be tipped off, whether or not Brian got away,_ Jonah warned him. _There’s usually only one or two pair of eyes, on the surface, this place is a pretty podunk outpost, but now it’ll be crawling. So stay sharp._

Whatever eyes there are, though, Pat can’t see them. He just sees the building behind him, old grey concrete, another building a few hundred yards away. He ponders whether to make for cover in the center—it’s closer, the rows of swamp magnolias and crepe myrtles, now grown up wild from what was probably tidy landscaping once—but he’d have to dart right across that empty parking lot. Probably better to make for a hill, edge his way over to the piney woods around the clearing.

He moves—crawls, actually—slow and careful. If anyone sights him, they don’t let him know it. When he’s nestled in a thicket up on a hill, he can see a ways. He takes a deep breath, pushes down the bile, sticks his head well up above the weeds and looks around.

It’s not much. Not nearly as much as you’d think. Two massive satellite dishes, or something like, that seem old and broken-down. Three or four run-down concrete buildings, nestled together in the overgrown bushes, connected by a little meandering concrete road that circles neatly around. An old parking lot. A garage. You might think it was a research station— or that it had been one, decades ago. The windows are shattered and it’s covered in graffiti, and looks long-since stripped by looters of anything worthwhile enough to carry. At least, so it seems.

Pat gets back on his belly to wait. Hard to tell what he’s waiting for, exactly. Figures, or light, or movement, sure, but he doesn’t really even know where to look for good news. As far as he knows, Jonah and Laura could pop up anywhere. He listens hard for any sounds, but it’s hard to hear over the croak of frogs and rustle of the wind in the trees and the crickety sound of bugs and all that. Certainly, there’s nothing loud enough to draw his attention.

He wonders what time it is. Night, certainly, but he thinks it might not be so late. Hard to tell. His body’s screaming at him for sleep, but not so bad that he thinks he’s burned through the day and the whole night too.

The sky looks like it’s just starting to kick up into its promised flare, a little lighter, flickering purple-green at the edges of Pat’s vision.

He settles down to wait.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s not too long—a quarter-hour, maybe—before there’s a sound in the dark.

Like grating metal. Pat’s eyes flick around nervously, scanning for movement. The door he came up from is still, and there’s nothing else he can see—

the sound again. Not too loud, slow. Like something heavy running against something else.   

No movement along the edges of the building, on the large grey expanse of asphalt. Nothing—

the sound grinds a smidge louder, though, before it stills, and he thinks he can place it, maybe.

Pat sucks in a breath, steels his nerves, and crawls toward it, along the edge of the ridge. It didn’t sound like an animal, that. He needs to see whatever it is, man or machine or friend or foe. He sidles up along the edge of the marsh, inching further from the buildings and closer to the satellite dish. Any sounds now are subtle, and could just as easily be from someone moving as they could be from the wind in the trees.

He examines the dish. It’s uninteresting, seemingly, flat concrete and metal cross-bracing on a wide asphalt pad. There’s a walkway to the buildings, and a road down to a little berm of trees. No doors that he can see, no cover, really, other than the steel beams themselves. He turns to look over—

_shit!_

a hand emerges from the ground, near the dish—

two hands, actually, together.

Pat holds his breath. He’s got a little height on the spot, so he can see where they’re coming up, maybe a hundred feet away, through a black little circle in the concrete. Something like a manhole cover, maybe. They grab the edge and pull, scrabble. It looks like it’s taking effort. Like the body below isn’t climbing stairs, like maybe they’re fighting their own weight to get up, like the hands are tied together maybe and can’t really yank—

and then he sees, in the dim and flickering light—

and then Pat’s _shoving_ himself up and running—

staying low to the ground, sure, but running nonetheless—

because he’d know that messy little mop of hair anywhere—

the tousled head, the delicate little creature he loves clawing its way out of the depths.

He _throws_ himself on his belly and grabs the pair of arms and yanks hard—

Brian squeaks in fear and surprise—

but lets himself be thrown up to the concrete on his belly.

Pat pauses, dry-mouthed, to listen, but there’s nothing coming for them yet, no sound but the rustling wind and Brian’s heavy panting. Kid’s a mess, hands cuffed in front of him, dark wet blood soaking his hair and all down his shirt. But he’s alive, and he’s breathing, and he’s strong enough to roll over and awake enough to stutter out hopefully “J-Jonah?” as he sits up.

“Guess again, kid.”

His eyes find Pat and he wails in something like gratitude—

throws his cuffed hands around Pat’s neck and pulls him straight back to the ground to crush their faces together in a kiss.

Pat tastes iron and salt and salvation, and nothing has ever been so wonderful. Nothing.

  
  
  
  


It takes a minute— _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—_ before the two— _kid, don’t, don’t—_ are done bleeding all over each other— _Pat I thought—_ and struggling against each other— _we gotta get out of the open, kid_ —and hissing in pain— _Pat you’re hurt—_ and dragging themselves up— _it’s just my shoulder, c’mon—_ and scampering, hands and knees— _you don’t have to carry me, Pat, I’m fine—_ and then into a bent half-run— _don’t fall on your face kid—_ that dives into the cover of the ridge— _where are the others? did they go back?_ —and wends around the rim _—they’re meeting us up here_ —and takes them a little distance away— _then this way, c’mon—_ to an unassuming hill out in the trees _._

Brian points at it and says, “We’ll wait here. That’s where they’ll be. Where we meet up, topside. Isn’t that where you came up?”

“I got lost.” Pat can’t help himself, he can’t, he drags the kid close by his collar and pulls him into another fierce kiss. Because he’s here. And the kid’s here. And the first thing this little dissembler did when he saw Pat was kiss him—

and God help him, Pat wants to feel that feeling again—

to let the confusion of what was and the looming worry of what will be drop away—  

to just revel in something that _is_ —

to let himself find his undeserved rewards for always doing the stupidest goddamn things.

This is its own kind of poison, Pat figures. Like wine laced with lead. But _god_ , it’s sweet.

The lips yield immediately, despite the pain and the fear and the blood and the smell of wet earth and the dark and _everything_ , everything. His beautiful slender body heaves in Pat’s arms and his bound hands clutch Pat’s shirt like a lifeline and that’s either blood on his face or tears, but no one’s counting, all right, no one’s looking at whoever’s crying in the dark like this.

They come up for air, giddy, punch-drunk, and there’s so many important questions—

_what happened back in ‘Leans_ —

_why the fuck did you follow me—_

_what even are you—_

_what’d they do to you—_

_where are we—_

_what happened to your shoulder—_

_who caught you—_

_why didn’t you just run—_

_what do we do if they don’t show up—_

—buzzing like locusts around them, but none of them are as important as the way Brian’s teeth bite into Pat’s mouth, possessive, like Pat’s something precious he wants all to himself.

“Fuck,” Pat finally breathes out, a little bubble of dire, tired mirth. “I was pretty sure if I ever saw you again you’d put a bullet in my chest.”

“Not your _chest_ ,” Brian claws at his front, laughing hysterically. “That’s mean. I wouldn’t do that.”

“How the _hell_ was I supposed to know that,” Pat groans. “I thought—”

_“Shhh!”_

Brian flattens to the ground and brings Pat with him. There’s movement on the little hill he pointed out. Two figures, in the pale green light. One round and tall, one short and slim.  

“That’s them,” Brian huffs, already scrambling to his feet, pushing himself forward, almost falling on his face with enthusiasm. Pat lags behind a pace or two, but not far. He’s not gonna let the kid get away again.

“Jonah! Laura!” Brian hisses, and throws himself at his sister.

She jumps a foot in the air and then grabs him, sobbing, running her hands through his hair. “Oh god, Bri, what _happened_ , what happened.” In the dark he looks like he’s slicked with oil.

“I’m an idiot,” Brian laughs again, that breathy hysterical giggle. “It was my own fault, Laur, I’m so _clumsy_. It’s just my head. You know I’m a bleeder.”

“Lemme get your hands,” she grabs them, sits him down.

Jonah’s close by, but he takes Pat’s elbow first. “Sorry I said you’d be useless,” he grunts. “Thanks for finding him. We owe you one.”

“No, no, you were right,” Pat grimaces. “I didn’t do shit. He got up here on his own.”

“Sappy _and_ honest,” Jonah mutters. “You’re a real piece of work, Pat.”

  
  
  
  


They fuss over him, and scold him, and clean him up a bit, and free his hands and wrap up his head, and shove at each other a dozen short explanations. It’s all rather truncated and quiet, giddy with relief but hushed, joy bridled by looming urgency.

“So what _happened_ , Bri,” Jonah’s sitting, staring at the kid hard. “Who cuffed you?”

“Just one of the low-level guys,” Brian rubs his face, sheepishly, fiddles with the bandage. “Army, maybe. It was so stupid… I fucked up. I just didn’t think—well. I think maybe _he_ was somewhere he wasn’t s’posed to be either, yknow?”

“Uh-huh. So you ran into him and caught him out.”

“Did he hurt you,” Laura says. She’s peeling off Brian’s shirt, digging in the bag for something cleaner. He tries to swat her away, but she insists.

“No, no—he was—” Brian laughs, “—a gentleman. Laid me out with a chokehold like I was a kitten. I think he just didn’t want to turn me in himself, though, yknow? To let on that he was wandering? So he just cuffed me and left me to get found.”  

“ _That_ explains it,” Jonah sighs in relief, pulls off his glasses and presses his hand to his brow. “We couldn’t fuckin’ figure out why everything wasn’t crawling with security. I mean, we found the blood, _obviously_ someone caught you—but everything was quiet as a mouse. No one seemed worked up at all. Not a goddamn hair out of place.”

“Yeah, I got loose pretty quick,” Brian grins, sheepishly. “Like an idiot. I was like—” he puts his hands over his head, mimes yanking them down, “—dangling, and I had to—well, like, break this pipe—”

Jonah snorts. “Right into your own head, ey? Graceful as ever, Gilbert.”

The kid chuckles, and it’s a cute little sound, even if it’s a bit scratchy.

“All right, Bee. That means we’ve got a few hours to fix this, but no more. Laur, sounds like this army guy’s not gonna tell people on his own…?”

“They’ll find him,” Laura says, rather grimly. “Once they know Pat’s gone. They’ll be hunting all over after the chaos tonight, Jonah. They’ll dig him up.”

“Yeah,” Brian bites a nail. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You couldn’t help it, Bri,” Jonah touches the kid’s arm, gently. “But we’ve gotta figure out what to do now. What’s the new plan, boss?”  

Laura sighs. She’s still fussing with Brian’s hair, around her bandage, petting it, stroking his face. Pat keeps back, though his fingers are itching to do the same. “Okay, okay. Hang on. let me think. Options.”

She pauses for a second, closes her eyes, still.

Pat listens to the crickets on the wind. He wonders how far he can make it, tonight. Not far enough, most likely, but if he sticks to the woods he might be all right.

“Option one,” she snaps out, sharp and methodical. “Go back, clean up. Make it so there’s nothing to find. Hope we didn’t miss anything. Stick to the plan. We’ll have to come up with a story for Brian’s head. That’ll be weak. And if he’s—if the guy spills before we get to him, we’re goners.”

“I don’t want to _clean him up_ , Laur,” Brian says, softly. “That’s awful.”

“Well option two’s so awful I want to _cry_ , Brian,” Laura bites, lets go of him. “ ‘Cause I know you’re gonna pick it.”

“What is it,” Brian pulls at her arms, which she’s crossed across her chest defensively.

“I’m not telling you yet. Option three. We _all_ leave, now, tonight. Together. We get our shit and cover as much ground as we can. We’d only have…well…maybe a dozen hours at most, but if we’re lucky we can get a car outside of Shreveport…”

“You know that’s not a great plan, Ell,” Jonah says quietly. “They’ll hunt us like dogs. We won’t stand a chance. Even if we all split up just to lose the trail—they’d call in everything they’ve got in this quadrant. We’re too valuable.”

She sniffs, a sad little sound, but nods. “I know, Jo.”

Pat’s palms are sweaty. He feels so tangential, to all of this. He certainly doesn’t get a vote, but the way she looks at him— her glance is almost _angry_ — it stirs something in his belly that should be guilt, but it’s more like wild hope—

“What’s option two, Laura,” Brian repeats, pulling at her arm.

She sobs. “Oh, _don’t_ , don’t make me. I can’t—” she uncurls her arms with a sudden heave, grabs him, drags him close to her. “You’re gonna pick it, you’re gonna pick it, and I can’t—it’s—Bri I can’t _lose_ you.”

Brian seems quite overwhelmed, by his armful of teary sister, but Pat feels his heartbeat like a drum in his ears, so loud he almost can’t hear her whispered miserable voice.

“You go, I guess. With Pat. And we run some shit to keep things as confusing as possible until you get clear. And you will. We can buy you plenty of time. And then they’ll—they’ll just think that—that you—that he—” She stomps her foot. “That you fell in love with him like a _fucking idiot_ and broke him out and ran away into the sunset together like lovesick puppies. And they’ll buy it, because they know you, and they know him, and they’ll laugh at you, and I’ll cry like a baby and they’ll buy that too, and Jonah’ll tell me this is the best plan and I’ll _hate him forever._ ”

“Best lie’s the damn truth,” Jonah mutters, somewhere behind.

“Won’t they know you helped,” Pat rasps out, because he thinks Laura might kill him if he says what he wants to say.

“Probably they’ll guess,” Jonah shrugs, with a little smile. “But if they can’t prove it, we’re in the clear, I think. What’re they gonna do, lose all three of us at once? That’d be fuckin’ stupid. And Laura’s right, they’d buy it. It makes sense. And it’s convenient for them. No security breaches. No loss of face. Just one agent went rogue, whachoogonnado?”

Brian’s hugging Laura like his heart would break, pressing himself into her, kissing her forehead and saying _it’s okay, it’ll be okay, it’ll be okay_ over and over again.

“What if I never see you again,” she whimpers, “I can’t—Bri, I can’t—”

“I got something for you, Laur,” Jonah says gruffly. “It’s not… well. It’s not perfect. I wasn’t gonna fuckin’ tell you until I was sure. Way to force my hand, lover-boy.”

“Jonah,” Brian breathes, and turns, still holding his sister’s hand. “Did you… dyou mean… did you find our next job?”

“Kinda.” The round-faced kid sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugs. “I haven’t done all the due diligence yet, Bri. Not checked it out, really. But I heard about it, and—fuck, you wouldn’t _believe_ how many arms I had to twist, to even get the breath of a name. Of someone who’d take folks like us.”

“You found it, though?” Brian’s voice is so hopeful, Pat feels like he’s a windowpane that any moment a stone could come hurtling through.

“I found something. Not a job, exactly. But we’ll see. Guess you’re gonna do the groundwork for me, ey? See if it’s for real. And if it’s all good, you’re gonna get a message to us. And then we’ll catch you up, after we’re good and dead.”

Pat lifts an eyebrow, at that. Jonah smirks. “Figure of speech, Patrick.”

“I hate it,” Laura moans, “but okay. It’s the best we’ve got. I _promised_ mom I’d take care of you, and this sounds like the least stupid thing to do. So I have to suck it up and just do it.”

“Mom always said you had the brains,” Brian smiles shyly. “Me, I just gotta get by on my looks.”

She smacks him, and he laughs, and Pat can’t barely hear Jonah circle them up, trace out the plan, because of the roaring sound in his ears.

  
  
  
  
  


Pat can’t follow all the details of where they’re going, and who they’re meeting, and how they’re getting there. He _tries_ to listen, he really does, but it’s hard, when he’s so fucking tired and his bones are screaming and the pit of his stomach has too many emotions warring around, fear, hope, desperate longing, a fearsome sense of _wrongness_ , because there must be a catch, there _must_ be.

They’re going out west, he gets that. To the middle of the fuckin’ desert. They’re finding someone named _Tara_ and they’re pressing this letter of reference into her hand like it’s a goddamn job interview and they’re praying that it’s enough to buy them a chance at something new. He doesn’t know what kind of operation this Tara’s running, out there, but he finds he doesn’t much care. He’d work for the widow, he’d work for the feds. He’d be a mule, he’d clean up fallout, he’d be a bloody _assassin_ , if it meant he’d get to tag along with this beautiful, talented, mysterious seraphim.

Leaving is hard. Mostly for Brian, although Pat finds his heart gives a pang, too. It’s stupid, that he’s got any worry left to spare for these kids—

but he doesn’t have the heart to tamp it down. He’s always doing damn fool things like that, getting attached, finding some stupid thing to hope about. He hopes they get out all right. Hopes that he sees them again, someday, in better circumstances. He tells them so.

After Brian’s made a dozen, dozen teary goodbyes, kisses and hugs and weeping all, they shoulder their bug-out bags and get ready to go.

“Take care of this guy,” Jonah taps Brian on the shoulder, glancing at Pat. “I kinda like him. Needs a few square meals, and got _no_ fuckin’ instinct for self-preservation, but he’s funny. I’d hate to hear he slipped and broke his neck gettin’ over the great wall. Who’s gonna crack the jokes that get me in trouble with Laura?”  

Brian nods earnestly, and kisses Jonah on the face. “I’ll take care of him, Jo.”

“Watch out for my baby brother, Pat,” Laura whispers tearily, hugging him hard. “I fucking _hate_ that you’re stealing him, okay, but if anybody had to… I know you’re gonna protect him. ‘Cause you’d do anything for him.”

“To a fuckin’ fault,” Jonah cuts in. “Laur, just remember, these two idiots are safer together. Otherwise they’re just gonna keep tripping over everything in between. We’ll catch up to ‘em. Promise.”

She sniffs, and turns. “You better go before I start crying, ‘kay? Be careful.”

They turn, and wave, and start their trek, in the green-grey light. Pat’s exhausted and filthy, and his knees ache, but the kid’s fingers clasp his hand tight and he hums a little tune under his breath, and the tune wends its way up Pat’s arm and curls around his chest and soothes a different ache, a deeper ache, that he’d been carrying so long he didn’t even realize he had it.

 

 

**is it the party that ain't over 'til it's through?** ****  
**is it the wiring that's suddenly a blown fuse?** ****  
**is it a chemical that makes this moment true?** **  
** **is it the music that connects me to you?**

**your song it gets me by** **  
** **when you're singing i'll be with you 'til the exit line**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF A LONG ONE. i shoulda made this two chapters, prolly. 
> 
> only an epilogue left, you cool babies,   
> a nice long fluffy epilogue with many Feelings. <3  
> 


	11. love you madly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a little rough-hewn. might clean it up for typos, but can't for a few days, so thought you'd maybe forgive my sins <3

**when you're quiet, but your eyes** ****  
**are saying everything I need to know** ****  
**i want to burrow like a sparrow** ****  
**dodging alley cats and whiskers** ****  
**why do we talk in whispers?** ****  
**is it painful hearing voices ring** **  
** **so early in the morning?**

 

Pat wakes up to pain with a scream.

“Fucking _hell!”_ he shouts—

and it startles Brian so bad he falls the fuck out of bed.

The cat—impossible to tell which one of those little _assholes_ it is—darts off in a dark rush of fur.

“What the fuck,” Brian huffs, scrambling up from the floor. But he must see the scratches in the hazy morning light, because his sleepy-annoyed-worried tone melts into sympathetic laughter. “Awww, god, Pat, stay still, don’t bleed all over the sheets.”

“That little _fuck_ ,” Pat lets himself bark, because fuck, that _hurt_. “Was it Zuko?”

“Charlie. But he didn’t mean it,” Brian soothes, blotting at him with a tissue. “He’d never jump like that if he knew you were up there.”

“That’s the worst part,” Pat groans. “I’m just a fucking piece of furniture on his way to get up that fucking bookcase.”  

“Well wear a _shirt_ to bed then,” Brian scolds, good-naturedly. “He likes the skylight. It’s not his fault we don’t have a window.”

Pat opens his mouth to complain that Charlie could _damn well_ pick a different room to haunt, if he’s so keen to see outside, but he’s interrupted—

“— _y’all right in there?”_  a voice drifts in. “Or at least, are you decent?”

“We’re good, Jo,” Brian calls. “Mid-morning cat attack.”

Jonah’s chuckle carries easily through the wooden panel, since it’s slid open a sliver to let that little furry _bastard_ in and out. Just so he he can scratch up innocent sleeping bystanders.

“Well, maybe he’s just tryn’ to tell you Laura made breakfast like two hours ago, so you guys should get up before everyone’s eaten it all.”

“Thanks!” Brian abandons his solicitous cleaning at the promise of food, and darts off as quick as the goddamn cat.

Pat sighs and turns over, looks up, even though it’ll get blood on the sheets. He just wants to lie there for a minute, let his heartrate come back to normal. And he’s still sleepy.

The others make fun of him for it, how he always sleeps late. _Half the fucking light’s gone, you night owl, how do you stand it,_ Tara tends to grouse, when he stumbles muzzily up to offer a hand with whatever project she’s got on next. Today it’s probably more plumbing, and honestly Pat’s no good at that anyway. He’s better at wood, or cleaning, or just straight up stupid digging, stuff that you can do in the dark after everyone else’s gone to sleep.

Charlie, ridiculously, jumps back on the bed and nuzzles next to him.

“Oh you absolute _cunt_ ,” he growls, and scratches under his chin affectionately. “Don’t act like we’re best friends. You’re a complete asshole.”

It takes a good long moment of petting, though, before Pat can bear to get up.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The kid’s on one end of the long farm table, stuffing his face with flapjacks. They’re piled with fruit and dripping with honey. Pat quirks his lips in amusement. Brian’s way too big of a scaredy-cat to fuck with the beehives, but he sure gets the benefits. As much honey as he can eat and all the wax he and Laura need.

(Recently their candles have gotten rather… well, _experimental._ Bri sits up with Pat in the evenings, while he’s whittling by candlelight—

 _please burn this one tonight,_ Brian will say _it turned out so funky, I gotta get rid of it_ —

Brian sits up making weird little paper-mâché molds in the shape of cats or turtles or geometric designs. Later, he supposes Laura pushes her sculptures into the hot wax, skeletons or hearts or little dancing people twisted out of scraps of metal.

They call them _The Gilbert Siblings’ Patented Revelations Candles_ , because the two of them are absolutely ridiculous, and they write a theme song for “their marketing campaign.”

Goofy or not, though, Pat likes them. He likes how the two go out of their way to find flowers and herbs and spices and sawdust and other smells to thread through the wax. He likes that they come in different colors, from pale shimmery purple—how _does_ she do that—to striking gothic berry-died-blood-red. He likes the way the wax melts away to reveal twisted secrets beneath.

And most of all, he likes that when Tara found out what foolishness the kid’s been spending his evenings on, she didn’t scowl and tell him to stop wasting time. She just looked at the lineup of strange little artistic creations that take five, six times as long to make as nice utilitarian dipped candles—

and she looked at Brian, whose head was hung low like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar—

and she said _these are fucking sick! can you make me an elephant?_

Brian’s _uh, sure,_ was more shy than usual. That shyness would melt away, once everyone was complimenting his little creations and making their own requests. He loves compliments, and he loves requests. Takes forever figuring out how to make them work, these little transitory pieces of art, and presents them with a flourish and a grin like a magician doing a trick. The kid was born to make beautiful things.)

Pat likes dealing with the beehives, because it mostly it just involves being patient and not being afraid of getting stung, which Patrick can handle in spades. It was Clayton’s thing, before they showed up, but he handed it over willingly when Pat offered. Clay’s got too much else to do, because he’s fucking _smart_ , even though he doesn’t talk much, just smiles and shrugs.

Clayton’s at the other end of the bench, conferring with Jeff about something-or-other. They look up as Pat enters.

“Morning,” Clayton says simply, and it’s not a jab, even though it’s well past nine.

“Hey guys,” Pat smiles, and sits. “What’s on the docket for me today?”

“Tara wants to send a crew out scavenging!” Jeff reports. “We need some—well, I want kind of a _lot_ of pieces, actually. That’ll probably take a day or two? She was gonna send the trio, but she said you can go with them if you like. Or… Clay and I have a few projects that’ll take some woodworking… ?”

It’s still weird for Pat, being asked what he’d like to do, rather than told what he’s best for.

“I’ll stay,” he says quickly, and Jeff smiles his big cheerful happy grin and starts rambling:

“Yes! Okay, here’s what I want—”    

Pat tries to get all the details down, as Jeff pokes at his little piece of paper and talks through what he’s got in mind. About halfway through the flurried description of how he wants the 3D texture, Pat figures out that he’s talking about finishing the bunks today, the ones they cut into the wall last week. There’s a family coming, apparently, a mom and two kids, and they’re trying to hurry and finish a little windowed room along one side before they show up.

He nods along, and asks questions whenever Jeff pauses for a breath.

When Jeff’s done, Pat looks up. Clayton’s bending over Brian’s side, telling him the plan, giving him a list of all the stuff they need. It’s long, but he’s not writing it down. No point. You could rattle off three dozen things, and Brian would remember them all to the letter.

“Y’all better move along,” Tara says, as she sweeps in with Jonah. “It’s already blazing out there.”

That, Pat’ll never get used to. When you walk outside, the heat smacks you right in the fucking face and sucks the water out of your mouth. It doesn’t get hot like _this_ back east—it cooks up, sure, but it’s wet and sticky and sleepy-miserable, not this baking dryness.

It’s pretty cool in the pen, though—

that’s what Tara called it, lips twisted wry. And when they arrived Jonah and Laura found it so fuckin’ hilarious that they picked it up, and now most everybody calls it _the pen_ —

it’s cooler in here, for the most part. It’s all built into the hill, ground curving around it, sheltering away the rounded opening of stone and glass that faces east to catch the light. It’s over Pat’s head, Clayton’s explanation of thermal mass and earth-bermed construction principles—look, he dropped out before he hit physics, okay?—but he understands well enough now, that his initial concerns about living in the middle of a goddamned desert are being handled. Honestly, it never even gets as hot in the pen as it did back in ‘Leans. It’s magic, as far as Pat’s concerned.

“I gotta run,” Brian’s shoving his shoes on and licking his fingers both at once, trying to balance on one foot. “They’re gonna leave me!”

Pat laughs and draws him in for a sticky kiss. “You better scarper. They’ll never be able to carry anything back without your muscle.”

“ _Dick_ ,” Brian giggles, and licks his face as payback. “I’ll be back—late. Seeya!”

  
  
  
  


Pat eats his breakfast more leisurely—he’s eating _pancakes_ like a goddamn king, he’s gonna enjoy it—and while he’s doing it Clayton sidles up beside him.  

“I know Jeff’s got big plans for you today,” he says softly, with a little smile that’s hard to make out under his beard. “But if you could make another couple of these—” his knuckles tap the wood of the bench they’re sitting on. “It’d be nice. We’ll be up to twelve, when the new folks show up.”

Pat nods. “Those’re fast. I’ll knock a few together. Anything else?”

“I’m pretty sure Jeff’s gonna keep you busy. Just make him happy.” A pause. “And, mm, tell me if the water tastes gritty, okay? I’m doing some work on the well today, which shouldn’t be a problem unless I mess something up.”

“Sure thing.” Clayton probably won’t mess anything up, though, honestly. He’s a fucking wizard. He’s promised them they shouldn’t have to pump anything by hand at all by Christmas, and lord knows how he’s gonna fuckin’ manage that, but he won’t elaborate on his designs. _I don’t want to jinx it,_ is the kind of thing he says, all modest smiles, as he’s painstakingly measuring and assembling some new wonder out of PVC.

A hand touches his shoulder from behind and Pat _jumps_ —

he does that, still, sometimes—

“Sorry,” she says, drawing back. “Forgot. May I…?”

He colors in shame as he turns. No one here’s been anything but nice to him. Friendly, smart, easy to live with. They let him into their little bunker, no questions asked, even though he’s just the boyfriend of the brother of the former accomplice of the friend of the folks that built this place. Certainly no one’s done anything to him that should make him _flinch_ like that. He wishes he could drive into his thick skull some goddamn _gratitude._

It’s Tara, whose hand is hovering politely between them. She’s dressed all business, off to work outside, most likely, in light clothes and hair back in a ponytail. Her face is keen, though.

“Of course,” he answers, and her hand’s back on his shoulder, turning him a little.

“What’s wrong with your back, Patrick? You’re bleeding.”

“Nothing. Charlie jumped on me, that’s all.”

“Hah!” she laughs, and her expression eases. “Little asshole. That’s what you get for petting him so much. No good deed goes unpunished. You need anything for it?”

“Nah. Just a spot or two. Nothing to take care of.”

“Sounds like you’re on laundry duty, then, champ, I’m not makin’ anyone else touch your blood.”

Pat nods his assent and she squeezes his shoulder gently before heading off. Her touch lingers, with her apology. People don’t touch him, here, without his permission. They go out of their way, to not. Bend themselves over backwards. For no reason at all.

 _They’re gonna need their own space, these two._ Tara dictated to Clay, after they first showed up and passed their—well, sort of an interview, he supposes. A lot of questions. A listing of connections. A full history. A litany of every skill they had, and every skill they were interested in learning. It wasn’t too bad, as far as interrogations go. She’d even laughed, at Pat’s forlorn jokes about cutting his fingertips whittling on the roof of the mews. _Let’s put ‘em in the new room, Clay._

 _I thought that was mine!_ Jeff whined. _I have to sleep under the fucking stairs for another month??_

 _Stop bitching,_ she barked at him, very sharp. A tone like someone who’s used to being obeyed. Jeff grumbled, and it made the hairs stand up on the back of Pat’s arms. Fucking hell, could he _ever_ show up somewhere new without making enemies.

_We really don’t need—_

She silenced him with a hand.

He knows now she wasn’t pissed. Not really. It was silly, flinching.

 _Sorry_ , she said, tone softer. _Just, don’t worry about it. There’s two of you. We’d all rather let you two canoodle in privacy. It’s the worst room so far, anyway. No window. So deal with it._

Later, after he’d found Jeff and tried to make it up to him and been brushed off rather stiffly, he caught the whisper of his name on someone’s breath and sidled up behind a shadow.

_—red to suck me off, Tara. I didn’t…know what to do...?_

_Well I sure as fuck hope you don’t need my advice to say no._

_Tara!_

_Don’t you ‘Tara’ me. I swear to God Jeffrey, if you sulk like that again, I’ll make you wait two months more. You made him feel like shit, and you hated that fucking room anyway._

_Well ex-cuuuuuse me. It was just a joke._

_Don’t joke around him that way. He’s not gonna take it well._

_Okay, okay, I didn’t mean to—_

_And don’t fucking touch him._

_Shit, Tara, I wasn’t gonna… touch him. Shit._

_Not like that. I’m just telling everyone. Give the guy some space to adjust. He’s got— we’ve all got baggage, all right? You don’t talk about babies around Leena. You don’t yell too loud around Chris. You don’t ask Clayton about his brother. And don’t fucking touch Patrick, all right? Unless you ask. He’s had enough of that._

  
  
  
  


The days pass so quickly, here. It’s never boring, the shit he’s doing, that he’s learning, and it tires Pat out into pleasant exhaustion. It’s a very physical kind of tiredness that works its way into his muscles and makes them ache warmly. Usually his arms, but sometimes his back from lifting, or his legs from walking, or his cheeks, from smiling.  

However tired he is, though, he never complains when Brian comes pattering up behind him, loud on purpose, and makes a ridiculous _ahem_ sound so Pat turns, and then _flings_ himself into Patrick’s arms. His muscles twitch a little in protest, to support the kid’s whole weight, but he never lets them win. It’s just nice, the lithe little body wrapped around him, squeezing him tight, as if he’s never been so happy to see someone in his life.

Every day, this.

Pat doesn’t pray anymore, hasn’t for a long time, really. But when Brian jumps on him and smothers him with endless kisses, he finds strange little wisps of thought drift through his heart, echoes of memory, soundless words that his mouth fits around for no reason, no reason at all.

… _dwell Thee in my heart fully, that I may wholly love…_

“What’s that?” Brian digs his pointy little chin into Pat’s chest, looks up through his wild floof of hair.

“I said you need a haircut.” Brian’s the best barber of the lot—or at least, the most confident—so he takes care of most everyone’s hair. This means Pat’s stuck with doing his, which he privately doesn’t mind in the least. He cut a fair bit of hair, back in the mews. And there’s something wonderful about making the kid sit still.   

Brian shakes his head firmly and grins and presses their mouths hard together, again and again. “Nope! You can’t make me. I’m going feral.”

Pat shifts his grip, so he can hold Brian up with one hand and use the other to tug at the locks playfully. “Hmm. Looks like.”

“Rawr,” Brian bites his _face_ , the little monster.

“I will drop you,” Pat threatens. It’s an empty threat, of course.

“Nooooo, just kiss me.”

“You’re _dusty_ ,” Pat notes. “And covered in sweat.”

“Yup!” He’s plastered with dusty, sweaty, perfect kisses.

The kid is so fucking _beautiful_ here. It’s like some fragile shell holding him back against his nature was cracked with only a little tap, and he’s bright sunny runny yellow yolk spilling all over and covering everything with smiles.

… _in Thee I have placed my hope entire…_

Finally, the frantic kisses peter out, and Brian tips his forehead against Pat’s chest, sighs out. “I should go wash up, huh.”

“Honestly, now I think we better both.”

“Yayyy,” Brian squirms happily. “Carry me.”

All the touching he’s spared here is made up for by the relentless clinginess of Brian. It’s not exactly like when they first met. Not frantic and horny and desperate and motivated by secret and forbidden desires—at least not most of the time.  

It’s just when they’re together, the kid fucking crawls all over him. Sits in his lap. Plays with his hair. Crawls on his back. Falls asleep with his head on Pat’s chest and his arm wrapped around tight. Patrick has never _once_ successfully snuck out of bed to go pee in the night without waking him up.

He indulges it, though. It’s...nice. To just, be allowed that. To allow himself that.

He loves this adorable little barnacle, and pretty soon he’s going to work up the nerve to say so.

But until then. They need to clean up. He shuffles on out of the room, arms full.

  
  
  
  


Daylight’s for working, but evening is for supper and story and song. Everyone chimes in with what they’ve accomplished for the day— _no one’s allowed to put themselves down, all right, you fuckers, I’m the boss here, judging you is my job_ —and eats and drinks, and then in the flickering candlelight they bicker about the evening’s entertainments.

Sometimes it’s a game: charades is popular, but they’ve also a half dozen cobbled-together rulesets from everyone’s former lives. The first week, Pat felt a thrill of odd, happy memory, when he saw Clayton pull out a deck of cards.

“You two know any games?” he asked, shuffling. “We’re into spades right now, but we always love to learn something new.”

Brian taught everyone a ridiculous game—slapping-fast, requiring one deck of cards per player, a sort of hyped-up competitive solitaire that he called _Turtle_ because he said Laura called it that when they were little (although later, she’ll deny it). They liked that one, that any number of players could join in, as long as you have enough cards, and as long as you’re willing to deal with exponentially increasing chaos. A very Brian type of game.

Pat didn’t know any new card games. Just the stuff they played in the mews, back when he was a kid. Poker, gin rummy. Stuff that everyone knows. He tried to throw his memory back further, to games he played with his grandpa.

“Sorry, I—well, I _kinda_ remember the rules of cribbage,” he shrugged. “I half-remember, but I’ll definitely fuck it up.”

“Eh, worth a try anyway,” Clayton smiled. “That’s how I am with D&D, and no one seems to mind.”

“Oh _shit_ ,” Pat blinked. “Really? I played that, with my friends—before everything. I remember— I’d do that again. In a second. Can I… can I play?”   

“Hosannah in the highest,” Clay’s face broke open into a grin, maybe the first really wide one Pat had seen on his face. “Someone to help me reconstruct the monster manual. I remember, like, nothing.”

When they’re not playing games, someone’s usually looped into storytelling—Chris directs a game called _ridiculous things_ where each story must be more ridiculous than the last but still thematically connected—Tara’s the judge, and she decides if each one passes muster with a thumbs-down or thumbs-up like a Roman emperor.

Of course, once they figure out that Brian can sing like a morning lark, they beg him to do that a lot. He indulges them often, these days.

The first few weeks, not so much. Pat was surprised, how often he dipped his head bashfully and hid behind Pat, claiming that he wasn’t so sure of the tune, relenting only when coaxed out with piles of compliments and sometimes not even then.

 _Kid, I know you’re not shy,_ Pat murmurs into his hair, in bed. _What’s up. Does your throat hurt?_

 _No, no,_ Brian buries his head into Pat’s neck. _It’s…um. I dunno. It’s nothing. I’m being stupid._

Pat thinks he knows, though.

_Enjoying not having to sing on command?_

_Yeah._ The voice against his skin is small.

_I can tell them to leave you alone. They will._

_No, no, I like singing. It’s just nice. Being asked._

Pat can understand that.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The feigned bashfulness waters down to nothing, though, when Jonah and Laura show up. It’s all music all the time, from those three. They write songs like a _game_ , bouncing ideas off each other, popping like popcorn, whistling and humming and laughing and clapping and taking suggestions with aplomb.

The longer Jonah’s around, the more instruments start cropping up—at first it’s just Brian’s harmonica and Jonah’s jew’s harp, but the scruffy round-faced kid is _crafty_. Percussion comes first, shakers and drums and tambourines, and those are easy enough, Pat understands those.

But pretty soon shit’s getting fucking _complicated_ . A little wooden box with metal prongs that he calls a kalimba. A flute out of PVC. A metal washbasin that gets much-abused into the shape of a kettle drum. A plastic two-liter that sounds _exactly_ like a trumpet, even though as far as Pat can tell all he did was cut off the fucking bottom.

“Can you help me with something?” Jonah whispers to Pat, one day while Bri and Laura are on the roof taming the garden.

“Sure thing.”

“I’m tryin’ to make Brian a ukelele for Christmas,” Jonah grins, sheepish, as if his attempt is somehow a joke. “But I’m just not that good at carving shit? Can you help? I’ll let you give it to him.”

Pat blinks.

“It’s okay if not?” Jonah murmurs, uncertain, at his silence.

“Sorry,” Pat shakes his head, firmly. “Spaced for a second there. Of course I’ll help.”

He’s fuckin’ lucky Jonah needs a hand with that project, or Pat’d have forgotten altogether that human beings get each other gifts for Christmas.

  
  
  
  


As it stands, Pat has enough time to cobble a few things together. Mostly just little practical shit that anyone could make for themselves, but no one’s had the time for yet. Stools, shelves, closet rods. He’s not _grand_ at building stuff, but he’s worked with his hands before, a lifetime ago, and he’s had enough years of dicking around, whittling shards of wood on the roof of the mews when the light was too bad for reading. He’s not afraid to fuck things up the first few times.

Christmas eve’s an absolute shitshow, with Brian jumping around like a jackrabbit and distributing candied nuts and singing cheerful little renditions of _Jingle Bells_ and _Frosty the Snowman_ with his intrepid trio, including _several_ very lewd verses that Patrick definitely doesn’t think were in the originals, and almost certainly shouldn’t be sung in front of children.

He’s so bouncy with excitement. Pat wonders how many _normal_ Christmases Brian even got to have. Two, three? Five, at the most? No wonder he springs around like the blood in his veins has been replaced with icing-sugar.

They play games late into the night and sing carols and tell stories, until everyone’s exhausted by merriness and worn out from eating, until it’s time for the kids to go to bed, and Tara turns and says _and that means all of you too, assholes_ and everyone laughs.

  
  
  
  


 

“Merry Christmas, Patrick,” Brian breathes into Pat’s hair, and…

 _… I give Thee this heart of mine, that thou mayst dwell in it and do with me what thou wilt…_  

Pat’s shaken gently out of strangely pious dreams considering the path that he, a humble sinner, has chosen to walk.

Brian’s voice is soft, and his hair is soft, in the gentle light of dawn. His face is calmer than yesterday. Not somber, but sleepy-still. Reverent.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Brian tells him, runs a hand down his chest.

“Dangerous habit,” Pat turns on his side to face the kid. “I should work on that.”

“Nothing too crazy,” Brian murmurs. “Mostly praying, I think.”

“I don’t pray anymore.”

Brian smiles lightly, and kisses him gently on the lips. “Then am I supposed to interpret it as instructions, when I wake up and hear you whispering ‘ _Come, O Lord, and tarry not_ ’...?”

“Maybe,” Pat chuckles, and kisses more deeply. “Should I put my money where my mouth is?”

“No,” Brian says, although his quickened breathing puts the lie to it. “I didn’t mean—you don’t have to—”

“I’d like to.” Pat presses the kid’s hair back from his face. “If you’d like.”

Pat slides a hand under the blankets, trails his fingers along the bulge between Brian’s legs. He’s feather-light. The kid likes it soft, these days. Gentle. Very slow.

They didn’t fuck at all, the first month or two. Pat offered, a few times, but Brian demurred, diverted them into long languorous kissing and soft touching and cuddling together with his nose pressed to the nape of the kid’s neck while he dropped fitfully to sleep.

Then they fell together when drunk, and knocked knees while kissing, and a leg ended up between two others, and Pat was hot and lusty and let Brian pin him down with his clever fingers—

Pat bucked against the weight of the kid’s hips, and Brian grinned and bit down into his neck, possessive, fierce—

and Pat knew—well, he _thought_ he knew—what that look meant—

and he looked up needy and docile and whispered “ _how d’you want me”—_

and Brian _flipped the fuck out_.

It was confusing, the flurry of tears and apologies and blankets thrown aside and the little trembling body that Pat wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch, or if he should very much _not_ touch. So many conversations, it took, to unpack that moment.

Now, though, Brian’s more—calmer, he’s calmer. As long as they go slow. As long as he can keep his eyes locked on Pat’s with devastating intensity. As long as he can stop Pat anytime, at a moment’s notice, with a single little squeaked word _no_. Pat doesn’t mind being tested, that way. He gets it.

There’s other tests that he’s not sure he gets, though. He hopes he’s passing.

Brian grasps the hand, where it’s cupping his dick, pulls it away. Pat doesn’t resist, just lets it be pulled, lets the kid drop two fingers onto the wrist and press hard, feeling for the pulse.

“You’re not allowed to lie to me,” Brian murmurs and touches their foreheads together, so his hazel eyes are staring right into Pat’s dark ones.

“I never lie,” Pat lies, and the kid’s eyes crinkle a little in a smile.

“Dyou _really_ want to touch me.”

Pat lets himself be held, examined. “Always.”

“No, Patrick, not like…” he laughs, a bright little flurry of sound. “You’re so _romantic_.”

“Kid, don’t say it so loud, people’ll hear.”

The cute giggles soften his stern expression. “I mean dyou really want to touch me _right now_.”

“I’m not trying to con more candles out of you, if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s not,” Brian says softly, brushes Pat’s hair back from his cheek. “Trust me, from one con man to another, your game’s too weak for that. I got back orders.”

“Hardly the way to talk to a girl in bed.”

“Sorry,” Brian smiles, pulls the hand up to kiss Pat’s knuckles.

“That’s a no thank you, then?” Pat asks.

He doesn’t much mind, either way. He’s flexible. He’d fuck this kid every day, three times a day, a full workin’ schedule and no days off. He’d never fuck again, just keep his dick to himself and jerk off none too often besides. Both are easy enough.

Brian pauses, presses Pat’s hand to his face. “I didn’t say that. I just… I dunno.”  

They dance around each other like this, sometimes, figuring out how to make touching sit right between them. Brian’s a little nervy, still, about a few things. Pat, though—Pat’s got no nerves like that left.

Well, actually, that’s not quite true. He’s jumpy, sometimes, easy to startle. Takes a word wrong. Winces too hard, when someone’s just teasing. Not quite enough to warrant how Tara treats him like a spooked horse. But often enough that she’s probably on to something. Something about the peacefulness has wound him up tighter than he’s been in years. Or maybe this is just what it takes, getting unwound.

Around Brian it’s different, though. Despite the fact that he moves faster than a hummingbird. It just doesn’t bother Pat at all.

“Why don’t you just touch yourself, kid,” Pat creeps his other arm under, around Brian’s shoulders. “And I’ll talk to you, huh? You like that.”

Brian nods eagerly, kisses against Pat’s temple. He likes being whispered to, filthy-sweet and slow. He likes looking up with his big lidded eyes and panting out Pat’s name in dry little breaths. He likes being told he’s beautiful. He likes to _never_ , ever, ever, drop his trembling wanton innocent willful gaze from where it skewers Pat helplessly in place.

And after he’s come, he loves to laugh at Patrick—

because Pat gets caught in the afterglow, hushed, wondrous, grateful—

even a little longer than Brian himself, for whatever reason—

and by the time he snaps himself back Brian’s hovering over his dick with his hot wet breath and looking up with joyous mischief and asking _may I, please?—_

and it’s a sin, but there’s a kind of holiness to it.

  
  
  
  
  


 

Pat gives his rough-hewn gifts as quickly as he can, between behind beside the other frantic gift-giving. The intrepid Gilberts try to impose some type of order on the proceedings, some ritual of collective attention and oohs and ahs and careful unwrapping, but there’s too many folks and too much strong will and the kids are too eager and everything descends into a quick chaotic flurry of gratitude and generosity.

Pat’s glad for that, because he’s showered with little beautiful things—

and it shouldn’t get to him, it _shouldn’t_ , he was expecting it—

… _may each created object, O lord, be to my eyes a glass…_

but he’s not gonna cry _in front_ of people, in the broad daylight, like a child—

because it gives him enough space to find a noisy boisterous moment and slips away

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Pat’ll never get used to it, he doesn’t think, that the weather here’s so nice on Christmas day.

He sits up on the hill in his t-shirt, lets the breeze dry his cheeks. His eyes fall naturally at the horizon, where the endless blue meets the edges of the ruddy-red mesa, dark smudge of bristly pine like an underline to put a nice fine point on how pretty it all is.

It’s a far cry from Maine, all right, but he’s inclined to like it anyway.

“You okay, Pat?”

Brian’s on the ground out in front of the pen, ascending around the edge, stepping up the slates that work their way around to the top of the hill. He comes up slow, like Pat might wave him off somewhere halfway. He doesn’t.

“I’m good, kid. You all done with presents down there?”

“Yeah,” Brian says shyly. “Thank you for this.” He touches his shoulder—ah. Kid’s already got his new toy slung across his back like some kind of fairytale minstrel. Well worth it, then, to get Laura in on the project. She’d made the strap—they’d thought that probably once he got his hands on such a prize Brian would never want to let it out of his sight.

A dangerous game, that. Brian’s a constantly-moving creature, running and stumbling and bouncing back up with bubbly sheepish chuckles. If he keeps traipsing around with that thing on his back, one day he’s gonna trip and fall right on it, and crush the little instrument, and cry and wail in sorrow at what he’s done.

But that’s all right. They can always make another. And it’ll make him so happy, while it lasts.

“I didn’t do much, kid. It was all Jonah and your sister. They did the tough bits.”

“They said the pegs were fiddly,” Brian slides the ukelele around as he sits down, touches the little wooden pegs with a tentative hand.

Pat shrugs. Yeah, they’d taken a couple iterations to get right, but that was more because Pat’d never done it before. Jonah did the hard bit, the wirework, Pat’s got no clue how he managed that.

With the thing in front of him, the kid can’t resist the urge to pluck it. Little tuneless streaks of sound ring out gentle into the air. Pat hadn’t realized how quiet it was, up here.

“Can I sit with you?” Brian murmurs, pressing into Pat’s side, so as much of them is touching as possible. “And try to remember how to play? I’m too embarrassed to fuck it up in front of the others.”

“Of course.”

Permission granted, the kid pushes Pat’s legs apart and settles himself right between them, leaning back to rest his head on the bony shoulder. Pat curls an arm around his waist, because he knows if he doesn’t the kid’ll grab it and put it there himself. He quirks a smile.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

It’s hours before Tara comes hunting for them. The shadows are getting long, as far as shadows ever do out here.

“ _There_ you guys are!”

Brian sits up a little more straight-backed, but Pat doesn’t let him go.

“Don’t mind me,” Tara smirks, as she climbs her way up. “Just wanted to let you know we’re about to start making dinner. You can help Karen with that, if you like, or you can help the boys get set up. We like to do a bonfire, since—well, it’s kinda the opposite of a tree, I guess, but it gives us a kinda celebration feel.” She pauses. “But I won’t tell if y’all wanna stay up here and just show up when the eatin’s good.”

They’re already getting up, though, dusting themselves off. Pat brushes back his hair. “Thanks, Tara. We’re coming. Sorry for running off.”

She ignores the apology completely. “Oh, and by the way. Since I already asked the other newbies. We usually just, uh, sit around and burn our fingers and eat too much and sing a pile of Christmas carols, like, real real out of tune. If that won’t bother you?”

“Sounds good to me,” Pat nods, unsure of what he’s being asked, exactly.

“I guess I mean, Clayton’s taught us all his church camp favorites, so let us know if that makes you uncomfortable…? We’re really, uh,” she cocks her head. “Well, I don’t ask anyone their business, but we’re really not trying to proselytize. Just us heathens trying to get in the mood out here in this snowless fuckin’ desert.”  

Words stick in Pat’s throat like it’s full of rusty gears.

“So just let us know if we should skip the ones about oh-lord-baby-Jesus or whatever?”

He just can’t trust them to turn without squeaking.

“I also know _Rock of Ages_ , if you’d prefer,” Brian smirks up at Pat, eyes twinkling. “Though my Hebrew’s a little rusty.”

“Oh,” Tara blinks. “Let’s make everyone learn that too, that sounds hard as shit. But uh, yeah, so let us know if we should chill with uh, like, the more Christiany hymns or whatever, I know some people aren’t fans, we just like ‘em cause it’s hard to sound bad singing ‘em…”  

“He’s gonna cry if you keep talking, Tara,” Brian puts in, joking, but also rather gently. “Pat’s a good Catholic boy. He knows his hymns.”

Finally, Pat’s throat churns out a little wheeze of sound. “I’m not a _good_ Catholic, Brian. And I can’t sing.”

Tara laughs, and relaxes. “Well, fucking great. ‘Cause anyone who sings worse than me’s a fucking blessing. Clay always pitches up _How Far How Far to the City Of Gold_ way too goddamn high.”

 

  
**i’ve been waiting for the day** ****  
**when I can throw away these numbers** ****  
**that line my dresser drawers and cupboards** ****  
**start me over** ****  
**life seems so much slower** ****  
**with your toothbrush by the mirror** **  
** **can I make it any clearer?**

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for coming on this strange adventure, kids. expect more longform emo shit from me in the future 
> 
>  
> 
> i moderate comments just so people can DM me if they want to say something but not publicly ! <3
> 
>    
> these are the songs that write the weird-ass fics:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbht9DqtnsnGCe6PGfTlrIEfDY-9A4F-Q


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